


Unresolved

by Million_Moments



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 41,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of unconnected ficlets concentrating on the relationship between Richard and Camille as it develops. See A/N on first chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Charm Offensive

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of short scenes and one shots of interactions between Richard and Camille with the common theme of most of them never going beyond flirting and unresolved sexual tension. I say most as I may write the odd thing that does but is short so would be better off in this collection than as a standalone story.

Camille understood that nurses were one of the categories of people who were dedicated and brilliant yet overworked and underpaid. It was something they shared in common with the Royal Saint Marie Police Force, which you think would create a certain level of camaraderie. Last night the hospital had treated a man in the A & E whom Camille and Richard now suspected committed an assault earlier in the day. The nurses were in no way culpable, but were still giving Camille rather brusque and vague responses that were not going to help them track down the individual in question.

She met Richard, who had been in the security office reviewing CCTV, in the foyer of the hospital and proceeded whinge about her lack of progress. “They just don’t seem to have any time for me.” She complained mildly. “Maybe we should send Dwayne in and he can charm the information out of them!”

It was meant to be a joke, but Richard actually looked quite thoughtful at the suggestion. When he opened his mouth, she did think he was going to ask her to call Dwayne, but instead something entirely unexpected came out, “Let me try first.”

Camille’s jaw dropped, and she was sure she must have misheard him. Before she could ask what on earth he was thinking, he was already walking purposefully towards the nurses stations. She couldn’t help but feel like she was about to witness a car crash. Was it being voyeuristic to try and edge forward and overhear what Richard was actually saying? Whilst she was considering how to get away with it, she realised something startling. Richard was smiling at the nurse, a proper full on and really quite attractive smile – and the nurse was smiling right back at him!

Whilst Richard claimed body language left him completely befuddled, Camille was not shy in admitting she was quite good at interpreting it. The way Richard was leaning on the counter towards the nurse, carefully maintaining eye contact and occasionally laughing – the way the nurse was fiddling with her hair and unconsciously straitening her uniform – Dear God, he was actually _flirting_. He knew how to flirt! Ok, so admittedly, the two of them had had a couple of interactions in the past that could be filled in the flirting category – but they were so few and far between Camille had always assumed he had sort of done it by accident.

A few minutes later he returned and told Camille, “She overheard somebody in one of the cubicles on the phone, who she is 90% sure is our suspect, talking about going to Dominica to hide out for a while. We should probably send the authorities there a description.” His tone was entirely professional, and he had suddenly transformed back into the Detective Inspector she knew so well. Though the nurse was looking after him with something akin to longing, Richard walked straight out of the hospital without a backwards glance. Camille noticed the poor woman look disappointed – well, she clearly didn’t know what she would have been getting herself into with Richard! Mind, Camille wasn’t sure she did either now…not that, uh oh, her thoughts should _not_ be going there.

Richard was looking impatient next to the Defender when she reached it, “Come on, Camille, those reports don’t write themselves!”

“I…” she began, then shook her head and unlocked the vehicle. Climbing behind the wheel she realised that there was no way for her to let this go. She decided to use the short drive back to the station to find out exactly what she had just witnessed. “What was that?” She asked bluntly.

Richard hesitated, clearly realising what she was talking about but choosing to feign ignorance anyway, “What was what?”

“That, with the nurse,” she prompted.

He kept his facial expression neutral and said, “I was just interviewing her about the suspect.”

“I think there was more than just interview technique in use!” she said, a little frustrated that he was trying to avoid the subject.

“Sometimes the use of…” he paused, carefully considering his words. “The use of charm is necessary to put a potential witness at ease.” She felt it was worth taking her eyes off the road for a moment to shoot a look at him. He huffed and then actually sounded rather indignant when he continued, “I suppose you just assumed I was completely without charm!”

“No!” She protested. “I thought your style was just, um, less traditional than what I witnessed.”

“Well if _you_ spent as much time as a probationary constable dropping off drunks at the A  & E and picking them up again as I did, you would realise that charming nurses is a key skill in order to survive.”

“Well if _you_ know how to be so charming then why aren’t you like that the rest of the time?” She was relieved her brain did not betray her and have her say “like that with me” instead.

“Oh God, it’s far too exhausting. All that saying things you don’t mean in order to get what you want. I mean why can’t a simple please and thank you be enough? Or some respect for the job we are trying to do? Honest to God Camille the world would be a much better place if flirting wasn’t necessary and I’ll tell you something else…”

“OK!” She half shouted, cutting him off mid-rant. “Ok, I think I get the point.” Thankfully they were now pulling up outside the station. She brought the car to a stop, but before he got out of the seat (and before her better judgement could prevent her) she turned to him and said cheekily, “You should try it on me sometime.”

He looked at her carefully, and Camille smiled so he would know she was only teasing. After a few moments a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as well, and he said quietly, “I wouldn’t dare.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!” She protested mildly. “Afraid my mother will tell you off for flirting with me?”

“Your mother is quite scary,” he said flatly. She moved to hit him playfully for his cheek, but he expertly blocked the move, flashing her a triumphant grin. “Actually it’s more because you are far too smart to ever fall for it, and I know it. You would see straight through me.”

Camille found she was a little flustered by the compliment. She was aware she may be blushing. She reached up a hand to nervously tuck her hair behind her ears, whilst desperately trying to think of a suitable response – something that wouldn’t break moment they were having.

The realisation struck her in the middle of the hair tuck. Her face lost the shy smile it had been sporting and instead she sighed and shook her head at him fondly, “I can’t _believe_ that worked!”

“Forget that! _I_ can’t believe I wasted the only opportunity for it to work on _this_!” There was a note of irritation in his tone, and he had thrown his hands up in the air, but he also looked quite smug. He gave her one last lopsided grin (which did something very funny to her stomach) and got out of the car. As he walked away, Camille only had one thought on her mind.

When would he have preferred to use it?

 


	2. Betelgeuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard takes the time to try and show Camille something wondrous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any astronomy mistakes are my own.

They had knocked off at six, with Fidel and Dwayne intending to head over to her mother’s bar and Richard dithering about whether he would join them or not. Camille was running a little behind, needing to send off some reports to the neighbouring islands, so told them she would see them over there. She was all done in the space of 15 minutes, and humming happily to herself gathered her things up and walked out of the door – and very nearly straight into her boss. He was standing on the veranda of the station, briefcase in hand, staring at the sky with an expression she could only describe as wondrous.

“Look,” he told her, without acknowledging her presence in any other way, merely raising a hand to point at the night sky.

Though there was more light pollution in the centre of Honore than there was at, say, his little beach hut – Camille instantly knew what he was referring to, “Oh my God, it’s so bright! What is it, some sort of meteorite?” Her only other idea was perhaps a plane on fire, but given Richard’s level of fascination and lack of action, an astronomical explanation was more likely.

“It’s actually the same intensity of the sun,” he told her. After a thoughtful pause he added, “I probably shouldn’t have been staring directly at it for so long.” He heeded his own advice and tore his gaze away from the sky. Blinking rapidly, he turned to face her, smiling with genuine joy. “It’s Betelgeuse,” he told her, as if that should be explanation enough. Camille suspected he knew that she didn’t know what that meant, and was secretly hoping she would ask so he could go off on one of his science lectures. Given the fact he was still looking like a kid on Christmas morning, she decided to give in straight away rather than teasing him for a bit.

“And what is beetlejuice then?” She deliberately fudged the name.

“ _Betelguese_ ,” he emphasised with a small sigh. “Well until recently it was a red supergiant and part of the constellation of Orion. Astrophysicists predicted it would go supernova soon but in astronomy terms ‘soon’ could be any time in the next million years or so. But it’s happened _now,_ ” he finished intently. “I never imagined it would happen in my lifetime, that I would actually get to see it. Isn’t that fantastic?”

She smiled up at him, his excitement infectious. For a few moments, he held her gaze, and Camille felt a very different kind of excitement building in the pit of her stomach. Then he seemed to realise that, like the star, he may have been looking at her directly to long. He cleared his throat awkwardly, turning back around the regard the sky again. Camille was surprised by the intensity of the frustration that shot through her, and she decided to try to recreate the intimacy they had just been sharing.

“Well, if it could have happened anytime in the next one million years…” she began, forcing a note of casualness into her tone even though nerves were wracking her body. “I guess the odds of it happening now were pretty slim then?”

“Astronomical.” He said it so dryly Camille thought it may have been unintentional, but then she spotted a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and she relaxed, smiling back and giving a friendly nudge with her shoulder.

“Ha, ha,” she told him, though she aimed for sarcastic there was genuine amusement in her tone - she could tell how pleased he was with himself for making her smile. “So,” she began, still with enforced casualness. “I suppose this is pretty special then?”

“It really is,” he agreed, still looking up and marvelling at the sky.

“Nice to share it with someone,” it was meant to be a statement, but her anxieties made it sound more like a suggestion.

Nervously, his eyes darted away from the sky to land on her face for a merest of moments before he looked away again. She saw him swallow, thought perhaps he was being plagued by the same dry thought and physical symptoms that seemed to have hit her. After a few tense moments where Camille become convinced he would ignore her, he finally responded, “Yes, um, it is.”

Relived and incredibly pleased by his positive response, Camille slowly reached out a hand towards him – intending to take hold of his. Before she could he abruptly turned around and said to her, “Of course it’s going to be like this now for ages so loads of people will get to appreciate it.”

Barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes at Richard’s ability to say entirely the wrong thing, she dropped her hand and took half a step back. The moment – or at least the potential for a moment – was completely lost. She was beginning to think the chances of anything happening between them were pretty astronomical as well. Glancing about her, she said, “Hey, didn’t Dwayne and Fidel leave at the same time as you? Where are they?” She would have thought Richard would have delayed them to treat them to the same lecture, the show off in him simply would not be able to resist. In fact she was surprised she didn’t over hear it, or get dragged out earlier so he could explain things to all three of them at once. The man liked an audience on occasion.

“Oh, I, um, sent them off ahead,” he seemed embarrassed, as if she had caught him doing something he probably shouldn’t have been doing. “I thought I’d wait for you so I could, um, you know, show you.”

“Oh.” _Oh._ He had sent Dwayne and Fidel off so he could tell her, share the moment with her, _alone_. “Right,” she continued, smiling brightly. “Shall we go have a celebratory ‘Betelgeuse just went supernova drink’ then?”

“Well, technically it didn’t _just_ happen, it happened 640 years ago and the light has only just…” he trailed off under her stare, and instead just nodded mutely. They walked down the stairs together. Perhaps there was a chance something could happen between them after all, preferably with a timescale shorter than sometime in the next million years…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Considering writing this again, but from Richard’s prospective.


	3. Betelgeuse 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharing the Supernova from Richard’s prospective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, astronomy mistakes are me being an idiot.

It was six, and time they all went home really, except home was not exactly where he was expected to head. Dwayne, Fidel and Camille were all trying to coerce him into going to Catherine’s bar, but he’d spent the afternoon vaguely considering a pleasant evening with Lucy and, apart from the lizard, on his own. Thus he was hesitant about accepting, but eventually gave in because he was _trying_ to get better at being social. In the end he only really had to stay for the one drink to qualify at being friendly. An errant image entered his mind, in it he explains that he is leaving to view the occultation of Venus behind the moon, and Camille would expresses an interest in also seeing it so he takes her back to his place and… _he should not be thinking about that sort of thing_.

As he left, disappointed Camille was not coming with them immediately but trying not to show it, he gazed longingly up at the sky…and spotted something amazing. He came to an abrupt stop, at first assuming he had imagined it…no, it was definitely there, exactly where you would expect it to be. He pulled out his phone that sent him text messages of BBC new alerts, to find one confirming what he was looking at was what he thought it was.

His lack of progress off the veranda had been noticed by Dwayne and Fidel, the latter of which cautiously enquired, “Sir, are you ok?”

He opened his mouth to tell them, and then that thought from earlier crossed his mind again…this was way better than an occultation, it was amazing. And, well, the boys clearly just wanted to go for their drink, “Um, you go ahead, I just want get something else.”

Richard didn’t fail to notice the two officers share a smirk, before Dwayne gave a small shrug and went off with Fidel trailing close behind. They probably thought he was just trying to get out of drinks. Richard considered going inside to get Camille straight away, but he just couldn’t quite take his eyes off it. It was amazing, seeing a supernova in his lifetime. If he was the sort of man who made a bucket list this would be on it. Sort of made him question if other things he would put on his theoretical bucket list weren’t so out of reach after all.

He wasn’t sure how long he was standing there, staring up at the burning remnants of Betelgeuse, when Camille finally emerged. He heard her leaving largely because she was humming cheerily to herself, and got the impression she had very nearly walked straight into him. Richard wasn’t quite ready to look away yet, so instead just pointed up and said simply, “Look.”

She spotted it straight away, “Oh my God, it’s so bright! What is it, some sort of meteorite?”

She was certainly right about the first part, “It’s actually the same intensity as the sun,” he told her. These words reminded him of how many times he had lectured other people not to look directly at the sun, because of the damage it would do to their eyes. Certainly Betelgeuse was smaller, but staring at it for as long as he was he did risk damage. He tore his gaze away, blinking rapidly but the imprint was still there and probably would be for some time. He turned to Camille for the first time, aware he may actually be smiling like an idiot, and told her, “It’s Betelgeuse.”

Richard didn’t fail to notice the lack of comprehension on her face despite his explanation. Basically, he was giving her an out, she could just go ‘oh that’s nice’ and then swan off to her mother’s bar to enjoy the company men far more suitable for her than he. What he was hoping, though, is that she would ask what he meant, want him to explain further. He looked at her keenly, trying to spy any hints of which direction she would go in.

Eventually she gave a small smile and asked, “And what is beetlejuice then?”

He suspected she had deliberately fudged the name in an attempt to ire him, so he tried not to let it show that it did but a small sigh still escaped. “ _Betelgeuse_. Well, until recently it was a red supergiant and part of the constellation of Orion. Astrophysicists predicted it would go supernova soon but in astronomy terms ‘soon’ could be any time in the next million years or so.” He knew he was getting really excited again, probably sounded like he was showing off, but he simply couldn’t help himself. “But it’s happened _now_. I never imagined it would happen in my lifetime, that I would actually get to see it. Isn’t that fantastic?”

She was looking up at him, giving him one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen in his life – a smile that could compete with the brightness of a supernova. He found himself strangely unwilling to look away and break her gaze and realised quite a lot of the excitement he felt was not necessarily about the supernova anymore. His heart rate shot up about 20 beats a moment and then - then his courage failed him. Clearing his throat, his quickly turned around to look at the sky again and prayed she didn’t spot the way he was flushing. Richard cursed his awkwardness, had no idea what to do or say next. Behind him, he felt Camille shifting, taking a step towards him.

“Well, if it could have happened anytime in the next one million years…” she began casually. “I guess the odds of it happening now were pretty slim then?”

“Astronomical,” he replied smoothly. Richard knew the pun was a bad one, but he couldn’t help himself. His peripheral vision showed Camille regarding him with a certain level of disbelief, probably unsure if he had said it on purpose. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and the realisation dawned on her face.

“Ha ha,” she replied, nudging him with her shoulder. Camille may have been trying to act unaffected, but he could tell she was amused really. The fact he was able to make her smile gave him the sort of thrill that he tried not to think about, because then he might have to acknowledge his feelings and that would hardly be very English, would it?

“So I suppose this is pretty special then?”

As he continued to marvel at the site, he told her sincerely, “It really is.”

“Nice to share it with someone?”

His heartbeat, which had only just returned to its normal rate, shot back up again. It had sounded like a question. Was she asking him if he was enjoying sharing this with her? Or was it just a passing comment? Did she actually expect a response? It was going to be difficult to supply one – his mouth had gone entirely dry. Swallowing, he desperately considered his response, aware that the longer he took the worse it looked. Eventually he convinced himself to reply, “Yes, um, it is.” Gosh, surely his most eloquent moment! Suddenly he realised the implications of his statement and that he was _assuming_ she was trying to create intimacy when it may not be the case at all. Terrified he turned around abruptly and said, in an attempt to dismiss his previous comment, “Of course it’s going to be like this now for ages so loads of people will get to appreciate it.”

He thought he caught a look of disappointment flash across her face, but then he had never been good at interpreting emotions. She glanced around her, then with a small frown asked, “Hey, didn’t Dwayne and Fidel leave at the same time as you? Where are they?”

Oh great, this was going to be difficult to explain. He knew he should have kept Fidel and Dwayne behind to explain it to them too, but he just got caught up in the – _God help him_ – romance of the idea of sharing it with Camille. Well, maybe he’d get lucky and she wouldn’t cotton on, “Oh, I, um, sent them off ahead,” he was aware that his embarrassment was showing despite his best efforts. “I thought I’d wait for you so I could, um, you know, show you.”

He quickly looked down at the floor and heard her respond, “Oh.” Well, that wasn’t very dramatic. He dared to look back up at her, was surprised when he saw her smiling brightly and looking _pleased_. The evidence did seem to be mounting that she had, well, enjoyed the ‘moment’ with him. “Shall we go have a celebratory ‘Betelgeuse just went supernova drink’ then?” She asked.

Richard’s pedantic nature got the better of him, “Well, technically it didn’t _just_ happen, it happened 640 years ago and the light has only just…” The hard look he was receiving caused him to trail off. Rather than risk angering her further, he simply nodded mutely and the followed her closely down the stairs. Unconsciously all this time, he had been doing the maths at the back of his mind, and had worked out the actual chance that Betelgeuse would have gone supernova in his lifetime. There was a time he would have thought that sort of number also applied to anything happening between him and Camille, but now he thought the odds were looking a hell of a lot better.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For me, it is interesting I wrote an extra 500 words from Richard’s prospective.


	4. Equinophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all the things Camille had forced Richard to do, it was about time for a little role reversal.

They got to call over the car radio when they were on their way back from interviewing a witness to an assault. There had been a small arson at the Christie Farm Park.

“Yeah, we’ll take it, we’re only a mile away,” he told Dwayne. Camille looked surprised he wanted to deal with such a minor issue, but Richard thought it would be rather wasteful to send Fidel and Dwayne out when he and Camille were so close to the scene. Plus the interviews had been a complete bust, the supposed witness far too drunk at the time to provide them with any useful details, and he was feeling so frustrated that he could use something else to sink his teeth into.

“You sure you want us to deal with this?” Camille asked, seemingly reluctant.

“Well we might as well. This place isn’t a proper farm, is it?”

“No,” Camille said, biting her lip as she took the turning. “It’s like a farm theme park, for families with young children. It has a petting zoo and a playground and such. It’s been here for years, since before I was born.”

“Oh right then, so if your mother forces me to look at another photo album I might spot a picture of you cuddling a goat here?” He asked, joking, as they pulled up - but Camille failed to reply. She seemed to be mentally preparing herself for something. Richard’s first thought that was perhaps some ex-boyfriend she would rather not see worked here. Well, he was sure if that was the case she could manage to remain professional.

Richard got out, looking around. The fire couldn’t be so bad, the place was still open for business. “Oh they do pony rides as well,” he said, indicating the field behind Camille. She didn’t turn around to look though, just nodded and marched off in the direction of the main office.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard didn’t have to be at the scene long to establish there was no way they would catch whoever had set fire to the shed. There was no CCTV on the site and anybody could walk up to the place in the middle of the night without facing too many obstacles. It had probably been bored teenagers. Whilst he wrote up a crime number for the farm’s manager, Camille wandered off to coo at the goats. He didn’t really understand what she found cute about them. They were smelly and aggressive, and he had acted quickly to send the one that had been at the station off to a more suitable location. He had suggested the abattoir, but he believed Fidel had convinced an animal sanctuary to take it in.

“Camille!” He called from outside of the shed. He didn’t want to step inside in case the goats started chewing on his trouser leg – or worse. She looked up and acknowledged him, but didn’t seem in a hurry to join him. “Come on!”

He strode off towards the Defender, but paused before he unlocked it. The kids had stopped riding now and the pony, or possibly small horse, was grazing. Richard figured if Camille could have five minutes playing with goats he could pet the bloody pony. As soon as he got near the fence the animal trotted over, probably hopeful he would have a polo or an apple hidden somewhere on him. Sadly that was not the case, but the pony accepted his lack of food offering graciously and still allowed himself to be petted. He had expected Camille would join him since she hadn’t seemed in a hurry to get back to work but when she didn’t he looked around and realised she was sitting in the vehicle waiting for him, staring directly ahead. He gave the pony one last friendly pat on the neck and went to join her.

As soon as he had sat down, Camille went, “Let’s go then!” She was pulling off before he had actually finished putting his seatbelt on.

“Camille!” He cried indignantly, and she muttered something that might have been an apology.

A few tense minutes passed. She nearly always talked when they were driving, and Richard wasn’t sure what to make of the silence. He began to mentally review the morning to see if he had perhaps unwittingly offended her, but he drew a blank. Eventually she broke the silence, “So you _like_ horses, then?” There was a note of accusation in her tone that he didn’t understand. He knew the French ate horse, but didn’t think that was the reason she would be annoyed at him for petting one…

“Uh, yes, ever since I was a child. My school actually had its own stables. Horses were sometimes better company than the other boys. I haven’t ridden in years though.” This last statement caused her to shudder, as if the thought of horse riding was repulsive to her. Suddenly, he realised why Camille might be acting so strange. “Are you scared of _horses_?”

“I’m not scared of them, I just don’t like them,” she snapped. Richard was pretty sure she _was_ scared of them, but decided to let that little fiction go.

“Why on earth wouldn’t you like horses?”

“Why wouldn’t you like snakes?” She shot straight back, though Richard didn’t think the comparison was in any way fair.

“Camille, snakes are poisonous and kill people. I think being, uh, nervous of them is perfectly acceptable. Horses on the other hand are domesticated, intelligent and beautiful creatures.”

“Horses can kill you!” She cried. “They are massive, I bet they could eat you if they wanted to.”

Okay, that statement gave away the extent of her phobia. “That is ridiculous Camille, I have never heard of a horse _eating_ somebody before.”

“Fine but they could kick you in the head and kill you that way,” she announced triumphantly, and he had to admit she was correct on that front.

“Fine, I suppose I wouldn’t advise you to go near any horses that aren’t properly broken in but those ones at the Farm Park have excellent temperaments, I mean they are suitable for children to ride for God’s sake! They are perfectly safe.” His reasonable argument fell on death ears, Camille ignored him completely and concentrated on driving. Richard decided to try another tact, “Why are you scared of them?” He assumed there must have been some sort of traumatic childhood experience along the line.

Camille just turned the conversation back around again, “Why are _you_ scared of snakes?”

He hesitated for a moment, and then admitted, “My cousin Ella put an adder in my sleeping bag when we were little. It was cold when she caught it so it was too sleepy to move, but it soon warmed up and bit me. I had to spend the day in hospital.” He was unable to prevent the shiver as he recalled the memory of waking to realise something was moving in his sleeping bag. “So why are you scared of horses?”

His admission has the desired effect, and Camille felt obligated to share the reason, “ _Maman_ took me to that Farm Park when I was, oh I don’t know – before I started school anyway. I tried to give this horse an apple but it put my whole hand in its mouth! It was _horrible_ , a really MASSIVE horse and I thought it was going to bite my whole hand off! Luckily _Maman_ pulled me away before it did.”

“It was very unlikely to have _actually_ bitten your hand off Camille.” He managed to keep the sarcasm from his tone, aware that she had been polite enough not to laugh at his story. “And it probably wasn’t even that big, it just seemed it because you were small,” he continued to try and reason.

“You don’t know that!” She was angry now, and distracted enough that she hit a massive rut in the road and lifted them both from their seats. Richard decided to drop the subject for the moment, but was already forming an alternative plan of action.

 

* * *

 

 

A few days later Dwayne and Fidel drove Camille down to his bungalow. They called ahead to warn him that she was quite frankly suspicious, which he supposed he should have expected. Richard still hadn’t decided if what he had planned was actually a good idea, but for reasons he probably shouldn’t examine too closely he had found he was uncomfortable with the idea of her despising horses when he is sort of quite fond of them. Further justification came from the fact it was probably about time they had a little role reversal, he couldn’t resist the opportunity to be the brave one for once.

When she rounded the corner and saw what is waiting for her she promptly turned around and marched off again. She was caught by Dwayne, but would not agree to be led back. Richard had to leg it over there to start to convince her otherwise, because he was pretty certain she could floor Dwayne if she so desired.

“How could you do this?” He heard her spit at Dwayne when he got within ear shot.

“The Chief promised me beer. Besides, I agree with him, you can’t go about being scared of horses Camille. Not at your age!” Dwayne gave Camille an encouraging smile and then left to join Fidel on the veranda where there was, in fact, beer.

“I am not speaking to you,” Camille said as soon as they were alone.

“Excellent,” he replied. “Then you won’t interrupt me for once when I am trying to explain something.” He paused, expecting her to refute that, but she remained staring stubbornly at the ground. Richard realised she was doing her best not to show just how scared she was and guilt shot through him – but he knew deep down he was doing this for her own good. “Right then, I thought you might like the opportunity to get over your fear. Marcus over there,” he said, indicating the man holding on to the reigns of a palomino mare. “Is currently in possession of the horse with the best temperament I have ever met. The only thing on this island more laid back than that horse is Dwayne.”

The last comment caused her to smile, but Camille deliberately turned away in an attempt to prevent him from seeing it. He sighed, “Come on Camille, think of all the things I didn’t want to do but did for you.” She lifted her head and raised an eyebrow at his comment. He quickly corrected himself, “ _Because_ of you. Stuff you made me do. Oh you know what I mean!”

She glanced quickly at the horse and then muttered, “I don’t, um, need to touch it near its mouth do I?”

He is surprised by how happy her question makes him, “No, no we can start with the neck. Horses like being patted on the neck.” He immediately loped off towards Marcus and the horse, then realised Camille was following much more reluctantly so slowed in order to wait for her. She stopped a good 10 metres from the horse, and Richard decided perhaps introductions were in order.

“Right, Camille, this is Honey. She’s 18 years old and like polos, rolling in dirt and long canters on the beach,” The last bit was supposed to be a joke, but Camille was too busy staring at Honey with barely suppressed horror to notice. “You are going to have to come a bit closer in order to touch her,” he suggested gently, worried that he sounded a bit too much like he was talking to a child.

“I think I am just fine here,” she replied. He bit back a sigh, and exchanged a look with Marcus who merely shrugged in response. Neither of them were psychologists.

“I could distract her with mints whilst you petted her, if that would help,” he offered tentatively.

Camille closed her eyes, looking resigned, and with a small sigh said, “Yes, I suppose.” She took a few cautious steps forward holding her hand out directly in front of her so she could touch Honey whilst being the maximum distance possible away still. Richard fed Honey mints and spoke to her in a soothing voice which he half hoped would also work on Camille. Just before her hand touched the horse Camille screwed her eyes shut and then finally made contact. Richard realised he was holding his breath as he watched her hesitantly - well it was more tapping than petting, but she was doing it anyway!

“Oh,” said Camille, opening her eyes. “She’s quite soft.” Her fingers became less reluctant, and she started stroking the horse in a more traditional manner. “It’s not that bad really.”

He was unable to keep the triumphant smile off his face, “Right, where is the hat?”

“Hat?” Camille asked, confused.

“Yeah, you can have a go at riding her now. Don’t worry Marcus uses her all the time for beginners!” He explained brightly, then realised Camille was looking at him in dread as she backed rapidly away.

“Richard, touching the horse does _not_ mean I want to ride the horse!” She cried. “There is no way I am getting on that things back. I appreciate you are trying to help but no. Just no.”

“Oh come on, then you can properly say you are over your fear. It’s like immersion therapy, I read all about it. I’ll be holding the reigns and leading her and I’m not going to let the horse gallop off with you.” He held out the helmet but she didn’t make any move to take it from him. He needed to come up with another option and fast.

“Do you have another?” He asked Marcus as he strapped on the riding helmet.

Marcus didn’t answer his question directly, “You aren’t seriously going to ride her in that suit, are you?”

“It’s only few a minutes, it’ll be fine.” He was relieved when he managed to get onto the saddle without losing any dignity, even though it is 20 years since he last rode a horse. On the porch, Fidel was wearing a shocked look and Dwayne was trying hard not to laugh – he probably did look a bit of an idiot in the helmet. Honey barely acknowledged his weight, instead she carried on chewing the mint she had just been given. “See, she doesn’t mind. You could get on behind me,” he suggested to Camille.

She looked like she was fighting some great, mental battle. Eventually she nodded tightly. Marcus was a gentleman and helped her up behind Richard, where upon she grabbed him so tightly he was a little worried she was going to do damage. Richard could hear her breathing hard and fast, but then when no disaster immediately happened she seemed to calm down. Eventually she asked, “Well, aren’t we going to move somewhere?”

“I would, but you have sort of pinned my arms to my side making it a little difficult,” he told her. With an embarrassed little laugh she managed to let go enough that he could take hold of the reigns properly, but was still gripping him pretty tightly. Richard tried not to think about the fact he rather liked it, and was glad she couldn’t see his face. Dwayne caught his eye though, offering a wink and a knowing smile. Richard glared back, which only caused Dwayne to start laughing.

“Right, um, I guess we’ll just go a couple of hundred metres down the beach and then back. Ok?”

Camille made a small noise that was half ascent, half fear. When Honey started off at a sedate speed she somehow managed to press herself closer to him – and this time he didn’t try to keep the smile off his face. 


	5. A Better Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille finds herself being forced into yet another blind date.

 

He knew it was old fashioned, but when he looked up from his tea and saw Camille standing there dressed to the nines, he stood up. He had heard she had another blind date, and he might not have been in Catherine’s bar just for the tea. He was sort of hoping to catch a glimpse of the guy and gage her interest. A sad, pathetic way to spend the evening, he was fully aware. But sometimes, well sometimes he thought she might like him a bit more than just a friend.

He realised that he had failed to reply to her greeting, so caught up was he in his admiration. She had one eyebrow raised, and he swallowed and said nervously, “Um, waiting for your date?”

“He appears to have stood me up,” Camille said, with a small shrug. She didn’t seem too bothered by the idea. “Or perhaps he came in, saw me, and changed his mind.”

“He didn’t see you,” Richard said without thinking. Embarrassed, he looked down at the table and hoped Camille wouldn’t ask why he thought that was the case. No man who saw her right now would be able to walk away. There were at least 6 men watching their exchange now.

She didn’t push it. Instead she told him, “My mother is pretty furious. Something about how our children would have been beautiful.”  

“With your genetics I think that is guaranteed regardless.” Christ where had that come from? Did Catherine spike his tea with something? Camille seemed as surprised to receive the intended compliment as he was that he had given it.

She smiled softly, and sat down at the table as she said, “I’ll let _Maman_ know.”

Richard sat down slowly opposite her, once again aware of how many men were watching her. “Um, you probably don’t want to sit at the table with me looking like that for too long…”

Camille frowned, “Why not?”

“Uh, you know, people might get the impression you’re here with me.”

“I _am_ here with you.” He suspected she was being deliberately dense, trying to make him say it.

He sighed in frustration and then explained, “They might think you are on a date with me.”

“So?”

Now it was his turn to frown. He sat back and looked at her again – yes, he wasn’t mistaken, she was definitely a beautiful woman way out of his league. “That doesn’t bother you?” He asked.

“No, why would it?” She looked at him like he was being a fool. “I like spending time with you anyway, well when you aren’t being grumpy…”

“I am not grumpy!” He interrupted.

“And especially when you are throwing compliments my way,” she finished with a smile. Though he was glad that she liked the compliments, he immediately felt under pressure to produce more. She must have seen the anxiety on his face, because she added, “Not that I expect them to keep coming all evening. I’m not that vane.”

He noticed Catherine wiping down the bar with a little more force than necessary, “Your mother does seem a bit angry, actually. Though she could probably easily find you a replacement date from the men in this bar, I think about half of them wish they were me right now.”

“You’re exaggerating!” She protested, prodding him in the arm. He realised he had managed to compliment her again without trying. Maybe she wearing one of those perfumes that are supposed to contain pheromones…no, wait, there was no scientific evidence base for that what-so-ever.

“What are you thinking about?” Camille asked.

So far, the replying without really thinking about it thing had been working quite well for him, it was about time something went wrong. “Pheromones,” he told her.

She seemed to find his answer amusing, “And why would you be thinking about pheromones?”

He was saved from having to respond by Catherine arriving in an excited flurry at the table, “He’s here! Oh Camille, he was late because of an emergency, but he is very apologetic. He’s a Doctor you know,” this last bit was addressed to Richard, and he felt a little like he was being put in his place. Why were they _always_ bloody doctors?

He thought, for a moment, that Camille looked disappointed. Then she seemed to mentally shake herself and said, “Ok, _Maman_. Two minutes.” Catherine opened her mouth to berate her daughter for not going immediately, but Camille cut her off before she could, “I know, it’s rude to keep him waiting, but Richard here has been doing his best to cheer me up when I thought I had been stood up so it would also be rude without saying goodnight properly.” Catherine looked between the two of them, probably surprised by Camille’s words, then seemed to acquiesce with a small huff of frustration.

“I hardly think you needed cheering up,” Richard said. “You didn’t seem that upset by the prospect of missing the date.”

“Yes, I was pretty glad to get out of it,” Camille admitted. “However that doesn’t seem to be the case any longer, so I guess, you know, I should go.”

“Right of course.” Richard said, standing with her. “Unless _you_ stand him up,” he said suddenly. Oh God, it was still happening.

Camille raised both eyebrows and asked, “Are you giving me a better offer?”

He gave a small shrug, then said as casually as he could manage, “Well remember when that chef got reported by his neighbour for spying because of his telescope but he really was just a keen astronomer? We sort of keep in touch. He said I could come to the restaurant anytime and he’d find me a table.”

Camille looked like she was thinking back to the case, “Hang on, wasn’t he a Michelin starred chef?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Quick!” She said, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the exit. “Before _Maman_ comes back!” He looked back and saw that Catherine has actually spotted them, and was watching their retreat from the bar with shock.

“Camille!” He cried, once they were out on the street. “Um, are you…I mean, I didn’t really think you’d say yes. Or if you did, I sort of thought you’d say perhaps another time.”

“No, let’s go now! It’s going to be fun!” She said, taking hold of his hand again.

“Yeah, well I hope you are right considering this could be my last night on earth.”               

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Camille, your mother _is_ going to kill me.”

She gave a small laugh, and stopped in the street in front of him. “That may well be true,” she said, which did nothing to alleviate his fears. “But I’ll make it worth your while.”

Richard smiled. He was sure she could. 


	6. The Fortune Telling Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little pieces of plastic do not predict your personality type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise it is well past Christmas, but what the heck, this is up all year round isn’t it? I hope it translates for those of you outside of the UK.

Richard agreed to the team Christmas dinner, but specified it was on the condition they wouldn’t make him wear the hat.

“Okay,” said Camille. “Since we all have no clue what you are on about, that should be fine.”

“The paper hat,” he prompted, but still was the recipient of three blank stares. “From the cracker?”

“Oh I’ve seen that on the telly!” Fidel suddenly piped up. “I always wondered why everyone was wearing a strange hat. Is it a proper English tradition then?”

Richard felt a bit miffed they didn’t seem familiar with Christmas crackers, but he supposed he shouldn’t expect that just because Saint Marie was a British Overseas Territory it would have all the British traditions. The lack of decent tea should have been clue enough. Not to mention the fact it was so very recently _French_. “Well, yes, they are rather. But don’t worry, the paper hats, awful jokes and cheap toys are something I am sure I can live without.”

 

* * *

 

 

Two days later, Camille walked into her Mother’s bar looking triumphant as she waved a box of Christmas Crackers above her head, “Look what I found!”

“Awesome, I really want to have a go at one,” Fidel said happily. Dwayne looked vaguely interested, but didn’t seem particularly bothered.  Camille stared at him expectantly. When he didn’t react in the manner she was clearly hoping for, she huffed.

“Aren’t you pleased?” She half-whined, giving him a significant look.

“I seem to remember specifically say I _didn’t_ want to wear the hat, so…”

“But you also said they were an essential English tradition!”

“Which I could live without.” He reminded her.

She threw herself into the chair, slamming the box down with enough force to clearly indicate her anger, and he felt a little twinge of guilt. She had probably gone to a lot of effort to hunt them down. There was an awkward silence during which Fidel and Dwayne shared a significant look and Richard attempted to judge just how annoyed Camille was. With a small sigh, he said lightly, “So you know, um, maybe we could just pull them now rather than at the actual dinner?”

Camille looked up from her sulk (God she was so childish sometimes) and after a tense moment seemed willing to accept the compromise. She tore open the box with something akin to glee and passed everyone a cracker each.

“Right,” Richard began, hoping that by adding a little explanation he could keep Camille in a good mood. “Whoever gets the largest part of the cracker when they are pulled is the winner. Though usually you make sure everyone gets one each anyway.”

Camille held out her cracker to a bemused looking Dwayne, who tugged at it. At the CRACK, Camille physically jumped, causing her to spew the contents of her cracker a considerable distance across the table and floor. Richard couldn’t help it, he started laughing.

“Why didn’t you warn me they made such a noise?” She asked furiously, probably more because she was embarrassed then genuinely annoyed at him.

“I rather thought it was implied by the name!”

Fidel and Dwayne were both grinning, and it wasn’t long until Camille saw the funny side of it as well. Fidel politely retrieved her hat and ‘prize’ from under the table. The rest of them pulled the crackers, and Dwayne, Fidel and Camille all gamely put on the hats though Richard point blank refused. Camille could see he wouldn’t change his mind, so didn’t push him on the matter for once. He had to spend a good few minutes trying to explain a cracker joke that didn’t quite translate. It was the first time he’d ever had to translate English into English.

Next, attention turned to the prizes. It was the usual collection of knickknacks that come in these things. Dwayne had received a plastic thimble, something Richard was sure he would never use. Fidel had a probably less than accurate set square and he had gotten a small plastic aeroplane that a child could easily choke on. Camille was staring rather intently at hers, reading a small sheet of instructions that had come with it.

“What is it?” Fidel asked curiously.

“It’s a fortune telling fish! Though according to the instructions it doesn’t really look like it tells your fortune, it actually tells you what sort of personality you have,” she explained.

Richard couldn’t let that pass, “It can’t actually do that!”

She ignored him and instructed Dwayne to hold out his hand, which he did obediently. The fish sort curled up. “Let me see,” Camille said, consulting the tiny scrap of paper that had come with the thing. “Moving head…no, not the tail either. Oh right, curls up entirely, apparently it means your passionate!”

“Well I guess it really works then,” Dwayne said with a cheeky smile and wink that caused Richard to roll his eyes.

“Your turn!” Camille said brightly, turning to him.

“I don’t think so!”

“Oh come on, don’t be so grumpy.” That woman always knew exactly what do say in order to goad him. With an irritated sigh he held out his hand, he supposed nothing to bad could come of it. Camille happily dropped the little plastic fish into his palm where it proceeded to curl up tightly, much more than it had with Dwayne. This amused her greatly. With one raised eyebrow she commented, “Well, it looks like you’re _much_ more passionate than Dwayne!”

Ignoring the smirks of his fellow officers, Richard decided a little education was in order, “Camille, as I said before it cannot actually tell your fortune, or your personality or whatever it is it claims to do. It is a piece of sodium polyacrylate, a super absorbent polymer that grabs onto water molecules causing it to change its shape. The difference between Dwayne and I that affected this fish was access to water molecules not personality!”

It didn’t look like Dwayne and Fidel had quite followed his explanation, and Camille was staring at him. Eventually she said, with a small sigh, “Oh Richard, would you honestly rather we think you sweatier than more passionate?”

Well, when she put it like that, it wasn’t the most attractive of conclusions, but that was beside the point, “No, I would rather you didn’t think a cheap toy had some sort of mystical power, and thought about things a little more logically!”

He got the feeling he may have rather ruined the evening with his practicality. Eventually Camille said, with a small smile, “Well, I suppose that doesn’t necessarily mean you _aren’t_ passionate…” She was trying to rile him again, but it wasn’t going to work.

“Yeah, well I am afraid you will need something other than the fish to prove that.”

“Oh, I can think of a few experiments…”

Even as he blushed and tried to ignore the amused looks of Fidel and Dwayne, Richard had to admit that he had rather walked into that one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once gave some crackers to my Muslim housemates who, like Camille, did not expect the bang. It was really quite amusing.


	7. Books about Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille doesn’t understand why Richard would read books about books.

When Camille sits down across from him as he is taking his time over his post-work cup of tea, he realises it would be rather rude to continue reading. He reluctantly places the book down on the table. It’s strange, really, he doesn’t particularly like Nick Hornby’s works of fiction but enjoys his “Stuff I’ve been reading” books. Camille, ever curious, immediately picks up and begins to flick through the book he has just put down.

After reading the blurb, she frowns, and asks, “Is this a book about the books somebody else is reading?”

“Yes, it is sort of like a reading diary I suppose,” he confirms. When she continues to frown he asks, “What, what is it?”

“Why would you read a book about books?”

He isn’t sure he understands the question, “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she begins. “You read all the time. Loads of books, fiction and non-fiction. Crime, Classics, Popular Science, History, Mythology, Geology…”

Richard decides to cut in before she just starts naming all the genre she can think of, irrespective of if he reads books belonging to them or not, “So you think that because I read a great variety of books belonging to different genres, it is therefore strange I would read, as you put it, ‘books about books’?”

She looks frustrated with him, as if he is the one asking the stupid question, “Why don’t you just tell me why you are reading it?”

“Well, I enjoy them and they give me ideas on what to read next.”

“See!” She cries, triumphant. “That is exactly what I thought you were going to say. And the point I was trying to make was you read so much how could you possibly run out of ideas of what to read next?”

He is frustrated with her now, “I just like reading, ok? Can I not just read what I want to? I agreed to stop commenting on your choices!” Her collection of books about time travelling Vikings who train as US Navy S.E.A.Ls had been a bit of a shock to him when he had been browsing her shelves waiting for her when he, for once, had been picking her up for work. To be fair, she had seemed as embarrassed about him discovering them and he was about finding them.

Camille drops _Housekeeping Vs. The Dirt_ and raises her hands in defence, “Okay, okay, sorry I said anything.” Then, after a few moments, continues, “Though only _you_ would get ideas for books from a book. Everyone else uses Goodreads now you know.”

He concentrates on his tea for a few moments, and then takes the bait, “What is that, then?”

“It’s an app,” He doesn’t do ‘apps’ and is about to remind her of his, but she realises and continues hurriedly, “Not just an app, a proper website as well. You can put in all the books you have read, and you can rate them, and then it looks at those books and how you have rated them to make you recommendations.”

“It would take me forever to enter all the books I’ve read,” he says dismissively.

She has pulled out her phone now, probably intending to give him a live demonstration, “Well you don’t have to add _every_ book. You could add the ones you really like, the ones you’d give 5 stars to, then maybe some ones you hated for contrast and then have a look at the results. So come on, what is the Great Reader’s favourite book then?”

He hesitates, and Camille does not fail to notice, she jumps in immediately, “Come on, surely you must have a favourite book?” The question is met by further silence as he struggles to form an answer. “Or is there some reason you don’t want to tell me, perhaps it is embarrassing? I would have imagined it would be something like _David Copperfield_ or _Murder on the Orient Express…”_

“That is a good book,” He interrupts. “Though I actually prefer _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd._ ” He is rather hoping Camille will accept this and type it into that damn app, but she is too clever and realises he is still not talking about his _favourite_ book.

“Don’t try to distract me! So _is it_ something embarrassing? Maybe something meant for a woman! _Bridget Jones’ Diary? Confessions of a Shopaholic? The Time Traveler's Wife?”_ She pauses, and with both eyebrows raised, suggests, “ _Fifty Shades of Grey?_ ”

“I think we both know that would appear on _your_ recommendations list,” he retorts quickly, and he does notice a little blush creep into her cheeks. Since Camille is managing to come up with suggestions he judges to be far more embarrassing than the truth, he decides to just admit it, “It’s _Persuasion_.” She looks at him blankly. “It’s one of Jane Austen’s lesser known novels,” he says with a small sigh.

Camille seems delighted, “Jane Austen? As in _Pride_ _and Prejudice_ , that Jane Austen?”

“Yes, that Jane Austen.”

“And is it a romance as well?” She is grinning, and he knows he will not live this down for a long time. He should have made up a more suitable answer, but she would have been able to tell he was lying.

“Yes, I suppose that is how it would be categorised.”

She claps her hands, “What’s the plot then?”

He doesn’t really want to tell her, “Can’t you look it up on that app of yours?”

“Yes,” she admits readily. “But I’m interested in _your_ interpretation of the plot.” She leans forward expectantly, and he sighs in resignation.

“Young Naval officer proposes to girl he loves, but he is about to go off to war and he doesn’t have any sort of fortune so girl is persuaded to break the engagement by her Godmother despite her feelings. He returns 8 years later rich and successful. She is still single. He thinks he hates and resents her, but finds he is still in love with her. She thinks he has moved on and is now in love with somebody else, but still feels the same way about him.”

“And?” Camille asks, clearly keen to know if it all ends happily.

“Well I wouldn’t want to ruin the ending, you might decide to read it.”

She grins, “Let me guess, perhaps you hope when they eventually ship you back to the UK with all your success of working here on Saint Marie some woman will come running back to you, having realised her terrible mistake!”

He puts down his tea, crosses his arms and tries to think of a reply to that. He stopped having dreams along those lines a long time ago, knows the subject of his previous obsession is now married and quite possibly no longer in the UK. He’s definitely over it. But Camille’s teasing comment had reminded him of the time when something along those lines had been his dearest wish.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to, um, bring up bad memories or anything…” she says, it is clear she is uncomfortable with having made him uncomfortable.

“Some things only happen in fiction, and one of those would be any woman who’s managed to escape me coming back!” It is meant to be a joke, but he hasn’t managed a jovial tone, so instead of a smile she gives him a look full of sympathy. He knows that these past few minutes will poison the rest of the evening now, and that they are unlikely to find their way back to the easy banter of earlier, so he excuses himself and goes home.

 

* * *

 

 

She appears in his doorway the next morning to pick him up, early as usual. “I read _Persuasion_ ,” she announces.

“In one evening?” he asks in disbelief, he knows she is not exactly a speed reader.

“Fine, I read part of it and then I watched the BBC adaption on the internet,” she confesses but doesn’t seem particularly ashamed by her admission. “I will finish it though! And you know, I think I might actually prefer Captain Wentworth to Mr Darcy.”

“I don’t think many women would agree with you,” he tells her as he hunts around for the tie he wants to wear that day.

“I’m not most women.”

There is a force behind those words, as if she is trying to get some sort of message through to him, but he isn’t quite sure what it is. “No, you’re not,” he says eventually. Then he spots the tie and grabs it, happy they will soon be on their way to work where solving crimes may prove distracting enough to stop him obsessing over what she might have meant.

“I bought you a present!” Today is apparently a day for surprising announcements.

“Why?” He asks. “It isn’t my birthday. And it’s not Christmas. Is there some festival I have missed?”

“It’s not...I mean it doesn’t need to be…! Urgh, it’s just a present, ok?” She is angry with him, which puzzles him further, but then her behaviour so often leaves him mystified. He takes the brown paper package she has shoved under his nose and instantly realises it is a book. He hopes it isn’t _Fifty Shades of Grey_. He unwraps it carefully, and as soon as he sees the titles he knows what sort of gift this is – it’s an apology gift. Entirely unnecessary, but he finds he is touched all the same.

He waves the copy of _What to Read Next_ and says, “Thank you.” He wants to add ‘you didn’t have to’ or something similar, but he thinks that might hurt her feelings. “I finished my book last night so, you know, I guess I’ll actually be reading this next!”

It’s an awful joke that doesn’t even deserve a hint of a smile, but she gives him one anyway. Nobody else would. But then she isn’t like other women, is she? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like reading books about books.


	8. Bad Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes dreams can seem so real that you need that reassurance that they weren’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline wise, this occurs some point between series one and series two.

Richard thought people only sat up when they woke from a dream on the television, it had certainly never happened to him before. Well, not until tonight. He found he was sitting up in bed, his hands had balled up so he was clutching fistfuls of the sheet. He was covered in sweat, and it had nothing to do with the heat for once. He thought he might be on the edge of a panic attack or something similar – having never had one before he was just guessing really. He certainly felt panicked, that much he knew. Some logical part of his brain was desperately repeating the mantra ‘it was just a dream’ but at the moment it was losing out to some stronger, perhaps more primal, instinct that couldn’t get over how very, very real the dream has seemed.

He didn’t know what part of his brain it was that commanded his arm to reach out and grab his mobile from beside the bed and dial Camille’s number. He was almost as surprised to hear her voice when she picked up as she sounded to have received the very early morning call.

“Richard?” Camille answered, sounding half asleep. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

“I called you,” he said stupidly, still not quite believing what he had done.

“Yes,” she replied, drawing the word out. Perhaps she thought she was dreaming. “And I answered. Did you have a reason for calling at, oh God, ten to five in the morning?”

“It was an accident,” he said quickly, though if she asked how he had managed to do so he had no explanation.

“Right,” she certainly didn’t sound like she believed him.

“I think I might have been half asleep…” he offered weakly.

“Do you often sleep phone people?” She asked, there seemed to be a note of amusement in her tone.

“Well, I, um…” He didn’t know how to respond and seriously considered just hanging up and praying she never mentioned the incident again. After all, he had gotten what his brain clearly wanted, the knowledge that Camille was alive and well.

“It was a horrible scene, wasn’t it?” The rapid change of topic took him by surprise but he still knew exactly what she was talking about, even if he wasn’t 100% sure why she had brought it up. The descriptor “horrible” didn’t really do the murder scene they had worked yesterday justice. The victim, a single woman in her thirties, had clearly suffered and taken a long time to die. Police officers usually find ways to shake the job off at the end of the day, things to get them by outside of work, but this particularly murder seemed to have affected them all, and they had all remained sombre through the rest of the day.

“Yes, it was,” he replied eventually – aware that pause before he had done so was probably noticeable.

“Sometimes,” she began. “I dream about scenes.” Richard constantly underestimated just how perceptive Camille Bordey was. Or perhaps that had just been a stab in the dark, but he somehow doubted it. Without him saying anything, she had somehow figured out why he had called. He had indeed dreamed about the scene, except on this occasion his subconscious had kindly replaced the victim with Camille and he woke terrified the dream may actually have been real.

“You do?” He half asked, trying not to give anything away. Though she might know, or think she knew, why he had called he wasn’t the sort of person who would be willing to admit to it. Not to her at, or to any sort of therapist, but maybe to the lizard. Still, he found himself immensely relieved to find he wasn’t the only one who suffered from such nightmares.

“Yes, for weeks after we investigated Angelique’s death I had this recurring dream about her taking her own life,” she confessed. “It made me so sad she had to go that far you know. I hated her dying alone like that.”

“You never told me that.” He didn’t really know why she would, actually, but he found he did not like the idea of her having suffered without sharing it with anyone.

“Well, I didn’t really know you that well then,” was her response. It was a fair one at that.

“Right, yes, of course,” he felt a bit silly now, expecting her to have placed trust in him at a time when they were still only just learning to be civil with each other. Though he had always sort of felt that was the case where they had started to learn each other’s rhythms and processes, actually worked synergistically rather than antagonistically. He suddenly felt the urge to add, “I wouldn’t have judged you.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Camille said softly. “If it was now I probably would tell you. You know the worst thing about those dreams is that they can seem really real as well, can’t they?”

“Yes,” he agreed, and then winced. Camille was also very good at interrogations.

She surprised him though, didn’t jump on it directly the way she would with a suspect, but then he supposed he wasn’t actually being accused of any kind of crime. “Sometimes it is nice to have a little reassurance they weren’t real.”

“Mmm,” he responded, vague enough he hoped it seemed like he was confirming or denying nothing. It was probably time he let her go, not only because he had already disturbed her unnecessarily enough, but also because he was terrified of what else he might reveal. “I, um, should let you go back to sleep,” he said awkwardly, as the full force of the embarrassment of calling his DS at five in the morning to confirm his bad dreams were not real hit him again. “Sorry to have woken you. Um, Good Night, or um, Good Morning.”

He wasn’t going to wait for a reply, just hang up, just she jumped in quickly and asked, “Are you going back to sleep then?”

Actually, given the time and the fact he normally got up between six and seven anyway, he didn’t really see the point, “No I might as well get up now. You know me, bit of an early riser anyway.”

“Well, I was going to get up in an hour to go for a run anyway, so I might not bother going back to sleep either.” There then followed another awkward pause as Richard didn’t really know how to respond to that. Eventually Camille continued, “Or I could forget that idea and you could come over for breakfast. I have those frozen _pain au chocolat_ things you bake in the oven. Though you can’t tell _Maman_ because she’ll lecture me.”

Richard was sure that she must be just being polite, “That’s very nice of you but I wouldn’t want to put you to any bother or disturb your current plans plus I have plenty of food here so…”

“RICHARD!” She interrupted his rambling, which was probably for the best because he hadn’t actually figured out a way to end his refusal. “I would _like_ you to come over for breakfast. You have the car and would have to pick me up later anyway, so you might as well come over a bit earlier and have some food. I even have tea.”

He was torn now, because she sounded really quite sincere in her invitation, but he was still certain she couldn’t possibly really want him there. “It would still be disturbing your plans,” he began, but was cut off again.

“Be here by six!” She snapped, and hung up the phone.

Richard was pretty sure he was the one who was supposed to give the orders but that last statement had, well, sounded rather final.

 

* * *

 

 

Camille wasn’t sure if he would turn up. She could think of several reasons why he might stay away – she probably hadn’t helped matters by getting frustrated by his so very English attempts to refuse her offer, probably believing she was just being polite, and practically ordering him to come to breakfast. She stared at the little _pain au chocolat_ laid out on the baking tray and ready to go in the oven. If he didn’t turn up, she knew that she could quite easily eat all six. She would claim it was so they didn’t go to waste (they went stale fast) but it would actually just be a rare instance of her comfort eating.

When she realised it was him calling her, she had assumed there was some sort of crime that needed their attention. Once she had quickly established that was not the case she was instantly curious as to why he had rung – she didn’t believe the ‘accidental’ phone call explanation for one second. Camille’s undergraduate degree had been Cognitive Neuroscience. She had used to say psychology, a phrase more people were familiar with, but Richard used to call psychology a ‘soft science’, so she had switched to using the course’s proper title and making a point of saying how it was actually a BSc and not a BA. Richard had shut up after that. The degree she held in no way made her an expert, but she liked to think that her training had given her pretty good instincts.

It had been a bit of a stab in the dark, bringing up the crime scene and mentioning dreams – but it was quite an educated one. It had not taken much to figure out she was on the right track, but she didn’t push him to confess – she could tell he was embarrassed already and probably didn’t want to talk about it. Her main aim was to let him know it was okay, and that he wasn’t the only one. Camille hoped she had managed to at least achieve that.

Camille also didn’t think he had _just_ dreamed about the scene. As horrible as it had been, she doubted a dream about it would cause him to call her unless some part of the dream had concerned herself. Camille’s subconscious had done cruel things to her in the past. She had often found victims replaced by close friends and family, or dreamt the killer has struck again - this time closer to home. A few weeks ago she had woken in a state of panic, after dreaming that Lily Thomson (whom, they had learned that day, was putting in an appeal) had come back and killed Richard. It has taken a lot of willpower for her not to get in the car and drive straight out to his shack to check up on him. When she did go to collect him the next day, she found she couldn’t help stealing glances at him, until he had eventually asked if he had something on his face. For the rest of the day she had to make a concerted effort not to touch him as she still felt a desperate need to reassure herself he was in fact fine.

The dream had, perhaps ironically, been a bit of a wakeup call for her. She had realised a long time before that she no longer despised Richard in the way she had when they first began to work together. No, despite his resistance that she felt was more defensive than obstinacy, she now thought of them as friends. Her reaction to the dream though, the terror she had felt when she thought something might have happened to him, well that had caused her to realise that she was half way in love with him. It had been a complete shock to her, she had no idea when it had started and no explanation for _why_ him. Yes, she could list a great many things about him she did like – but he had just as many attributes that drove her crazy. But on those rare occasions when he smiled, or even rarer laughed, her heart would beat faster and she would find herself smiling as well. She was acutely aware of the effort he would sometimes make to try to get her to laugh, and found the attention undeniably flattering. And she couldn’t hide her admiration for his skills as a Detective, the way he could take a thousand piece puzzle provided by a murder and solve it – despite not having the picture on the box.

In other words, Camille Bordey was a lost cause.

It wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, falling for somebody so unexpected so unexpectedly, but if there was one area where her instincts were useless it was Richard’s feelings towards her. Yes, he tried to make her laugh and yes, he had learned to put up with her playfulness rather than berate her for it – but they weren’t enough to leave her confident he liked her as anything more than a friend. Even if he had had a bad dream involving her, and had felt the need to reassure himself she was okay, well that couldn’t be taken as conclusive evidence either. Camille had seen his awkward interactions with women he found attractive, and he never acted that way with her. She had to conclude there was a good chance he didn’t think her pretty.

As she filled a jug with water, she caught her reflection in it, and wondered if she should have bothered putting on makeup after all. Well, she would have done so for the day if he had been coming or not…though perhaps she may have made a little less effort. She glanced at her watch, 2 minutes to six and she had told him to be here by six. She decided she would give him until at least quarter past six before she gave up though.

She didn’t have to wait that long. The almost hesitant knock at the door sent her heart rate rocketing, and Camille suddenly realised how rather like a date this felt. She paused a moment to berate herself for thinking like that, then hurried to open the door in case Richard changed his mind and tried to escape.

“Hello,” he said, looking about as nervous as she felt. “I, um, brought juice?” He waved the carton of orange in front of her, and Camille couldn’t help but smile. It was like the breakfast equivalent of brining wine to dinner.

“That was very thoughtful, thank you, I had actually run out of juice,” she accepted the carton off him and they sort of just looked at each other for a few moments, before she realised she should move so he could actually come in. She pressed her back against the wall so he could squeeze past. As he did so, his hand somehow came to rest on her hip for a moment. It was clearly an unconscious action, and when he realised where his hand was he pulled it away like he had been burnt. His eyes leapt to hers, and she gave him a smile that she hoped was both reassuring and perhaps a little encouraging before indicating he should make his way into the kitchen with a gesture of her head.

She shut the door and leaned against it as she watched him walk away. She felt more confident in her theory now, and though she would not wish such dreams on anyone, she had to wonder if he would draw similar conclusions from the experience as she had. She had a little hope now, hope that she might not be the only one half way in love. 


	9. 10000 Miles Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detainee guesses Richard’s Nationality, but doesn't quite get it right...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has no particular plot, just a little teasing and flirting really.

The problem with being a Detective Inspector in a very small force is that you sometimes find yourself having to do the sort of duties you thought you had left behind when you joined CID. For example, rounding up the particularly rowdy and, for the majority, completely high party of individuals who had decided setting off fireworks in the nature reserve was a terribly good idea. Richard wasn’t even sure where they were going to put them all. He did find something small to take comfort in though, they were all members of a group from Guadeloupe, and in their drunken drug addled state some of them couldn’t even remember if they knew English, let alone speak it if they could, so Camille was having to work twice as hard as him. He had no idea what she was saying, but he certainly recognised the authoritative tone, and many of the revellers became quite meek in her presence after a few harsh words. It was both impressive and oddly attractive.

Dwayne whistled and pointed at the suspect he held, meaning he had found whoever had supplied to methamphetamines Richard strongly suspected most of the individuals had taken. If that was the case most of the people here would probably be let go with a warning, though he wouldn’t mind finding who had brought the fireworks – he thought there was potential for charges there as well. Fidel was somewhere trying to arrange them additional transport. Richard thought it wise to assume this lot wouldn’t make it back to their hotel under their own steam.

Richard was about to go over and join Dwayne but on the way very nearly fell flat on his face when he tripped over a man laying supine on the ground. The man muttered in annoyance, so clearly wasn’t unconscious. The near fall had caught Camille’s attention, but at her raised eyebrow he merely flapped a hand to let her know he didn’t need any assistance.

“Alright, up you get,” he said, reaching down and half heaving the individual into a sitting position. As soon as he let go though he fell straight back down. “You can hardly sleep there.”

“Whhhhhhy not?” He complained. Another French accent, but this one clearly did speak English.

“Because this, Sir, is a nature reserve and not a hotel.” Richard made no attempt to keep the exasperation out of his tone.

“But a nature reserve,” the man began to explain, in what Richard thought was supposed to be a patient tone. “It is a sort of hotel for animals. And humans are a kind of _animaux_. So voila! This _is_ a hotel!”

Though the man clearly thought he had a logical argument, Richard wasn’t buying into it. “A nature reserve is not a hotel for animals,” he told the man firmly.

“Whhhhhy not?” He cried again.

“Because the animals don’t have to pay to stay here, like they would if it was a hotel.” Camille, who was clearly listening, looked at him in surprise. This caused Richard to realise he was actually attempting to argue with a drunk about why nature reserves were not hotels for animals.

“Hang on!” The gentlemen cried, finally managing to sit up under his own steam. “I don’t think you’re from round here!”

“No, because this is a nature reserve, and nobody lives here but animals, as we have discussed.” He heard Camille give a small snort of laughter. When he looked around he realised this was the last person left to get to their feet. “Are you getting up then?” When the man showed no inclination to stand, Richard decided to speed up the process by grabbing the man under one arm and hauling.

There was a vague attempt at co-operation as and the man lumbered to his feet. “No! Not I meant what.” Well that was an originally constructed sentence. “You aren’t from the Caribbean, are you?”

He was unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Gosh, you have caught me out there,” he said dryly. “Tell me, what gave it away?”

“Your accent!” He replied with a grin, needing to lean heavily on Richard in order to stay upright. It was not an experience he was particularly enjoying, though his fellow officers did seem to be amused watching his predicament. Before he could shout out an order to one of them for a little assistance, the man asked, “So are you Australian?”

This caused him to pause. Nope, he had heard him correctly, the man had just asked if he was Australian. “What?”

“Australian!” He cried, even louder. Then started bopping up and down as he half sung, “Are you from a land down under?”

Another drunk joined in cheerfully, “Where women glow and men plunder!”

Richard decided he better interrupt before the whole lot of detainees joined in, “No, you are about 10000 miles out.” He began to consider arresting this man after all.

Camille spoke from behind him. “You can’t arrest him just because he thinks you’re Australian,” she said quietly. “Besides, the van is here now!” He turned to look at her, found she was smiling cheekily at him. There was no way he was going to admit he had been considering just that, so he chose to just ignore the comment. The small laugh she gave told him she knew she was right anyway. 

“If you aren’t Australian are you from New Zealand then? Is it racist to have called you an Aussie when you are a Kiwi?” The man asked as Richard half led/half dragged him in the direction of the police transport that had arrived.

“New Zealand and Australia are only around 1400 miles apart, not 10000!” He cried, exasperated. “So no, I am _not_ from New Zealand.”

“Ok, you win, where are you from then?”

“England!” He said. Richard had expected the man to acknowledge his stupidity and cry something along the lines of ‘Of course! How could you be from anywhere else?’, but he was mistaken.

“England?” Came the incredulous response. “You sound far more like an Aussie to me!”

Richard gave the man what may have been a slightly harder shove than necessary to encourage him into the back of the van, and then shut the doors firmly. From the back of the van another chorus of ‘Do you come from a land down under’ began, and he closed his eyes and wished he was at home, _alone_. When he opened them again, Camille was standing in front of him arms crossed and smiling, well, sort of fondly at him.

He couldn’t help himself. “Do I _really_ sound Australian?” He asked in a rush, before he could stop himself. He didn’t have an issue with Australians, but found the idea that he didn’t necessarily sound English sort of uncomfortable.

Her expression became serious and she said sincerely, “Richard Poole, you are the most English man I have ever met, and that includes your accent. No, I don’t think you sound even remotely Australian.”

“Can you tell him that?” He asked, hooking a thumb towards the van.

“Richard, he is drunk and high, I am not sure it would get through.” He gave a small shrug, she had a good point there.

“I bet you lot wish they’d sent an Australian instead of me, though.”

She raised both eyebrows at this, “Why would you say that?”

“Well, you know, Australians are a bit more sort of, fun loving I guess. Not reserved anyway. And they’d cope better with the heat. And the insects. And the snakes.”

“That may well be true,” Camille said, and he was surprised how despondent it made him feel. He stared at the ground and tried to think of a way to change the topic. But then she continued, “But they wouldn’t be you, would they?”

He was going to tell her that that was rather the point, but when he looked up he she was wearing the expression she reserved when she was trying to get him to, well, he still wasn’t 100% sure what she wanted from him. But anyway, he figured out the comment was meant to be a compliment, anyway.

“Right, yeah,” he mumbled in response.

She seemed to realise she had made him unconformable. Perhaps in an effort to dispel the awkwardness, she announced cheerfully, “Mind, there is one way you are Australian, you _do_ have a tendency to say crickey!”

“The Australians don’t have a monopoly on that term you know!”

“I didn’t say they did,” she said, holding up a hand to placate him. Then, with the cheeky smile he’d quickly come to like a little too much, said, “Come on, Steve Irwin, I’ll drive you home.”

He frowned. “Who’s Steve Irwin?”

Camille sighed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the Aussie stereotypes!


	10. The Moro Reflex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard demonstrates his surprising knowledge of babies…but also demonstrate some distinct gaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may want to look up Moro reflex on wiki. The video of the baby doing it whilst asleep is particularly cute.

Oh God, he was being handed the baby again.

Technically, like other police officers, Fidel was not entitled to paternity leave – but he had annual leave and Richard signed off with no qualms for him to take two weeks once Rosie arrived. That leave was nearly over, but before it did end Fidel and Juliet had come into the centre of Honore to register the child’s birth. Apparently, whilst filling out the paperwork, Rosie had become fussy and required a feed. Juliet had come to Catherine’s to do so, and Richard had stayed as far away as possible. He fully supported a woman’s right to breast feed in public, but he still rather wished they wouldn’t do so in front of him. Catherine and Camille sat with her and chatted away like the woman was not practically half naked in front of them.

After everything was put away, and the baby burped, Juliet and Camille approached his table. He stood and smiled politely at the baby, making some vague but appropriate comment about how beautiful she was. Then Juliet’s phone had rung and, unable to retrieve it from her pocket whilst holding the child, she had practically dumped the tiny thing into his arms. His heart rate skyrocketed, but once he felt that her weight was quite secure he calmed down a bit. He was pretty certain he could manage not to drop her for a minute or so. Camille wasn’t bothering to hide her amusement at his discomfit at being left literally holding the baby. Rosie was practically comatose after her feed, and completely oblivious to the fact she had changed hands.

“That was Fidel,” Juliet told them both as she hung up. “I forgot to give him our marriage certificate, it’s in my bag. You can hold her for ten minutes whilst I run over there, right?”

Ten minutes was about 9 minutes longer than Richard expected to have to hold Rosie. However, she was fast asleep, and he was pretty certain from the way Camille cooed over Rosie that she would willingly take over responsibility if he asked her, so he just nodded mutely. Juliet stooped to kiss her daughter on the forehead and then hurried out of the door. Richard gently lowered himself back down into his seat, watching the baby’s face, but Rosie remained asleep. He looked up to find Camille was smiling at him.

“What?” He asked, a little uncomfortable by the attention she was paying him.

“You looked _so_ scared when she passed you the baby,” Camille said. “But look at you now, you’re fine!”

“Yes, it’s strange, both times I’ve been terrified of dropping her. I mean, I don’t think that would make me very popular with Fidel and Juliet, would it?” Camille just smiled at his confession. “But then once I actually have her it’s sort of like some switch turns on in my brain and I realise I’m not going to drop her.”

“Well it appears you have some paternal instinct, who would have thought?” Camille teased him.

Richard chose to ignore her. Whilst examining Rosie again to see if she was still fine, he had noticed something odd. Frowning, he asked, “Why has she got socks on her hands?”

Camille sighed, “What was I saying about paternal instinct? They aren’t _socks_ , Richard, they are scratch mittens.”

“Scratch mittens? Why on earth would she need those? Do new-borns attack people?”

“There nails are quite sharp, they are largely to stop the baby accidentally scratching herself,” Camille explained patiently. Richard found it hard to believe a baby would be born with sharp nails, and so gently removed a mitten to investigate further whilst Camille sat back and looked at him disbelievingly. The nails were in fact rather sharp.

“Hmm,” He said, replacing the mitten. “Well I suppose you learn something new every day.”

Rosie’s face wrinkled up in her sleep suddenly, but then relaxed again. This caused Camille to laugh at the funny face, “Do you think she dreams?”

“Up to 80% of new born sleep is R.E.M so yes, she dreams,” Richard informed her. Camille looked a little surprised by the fact.

“Well what do you think she dreams about?”

“That I don’t know.” However at the moment Rosie suddenly threw both arms out to the side, before drawing them back in, which did provide him with a clue about what she was dreaming about. “Or perhaps she is dreaming about falling?”

Camille had caught the actions of the baby, but Richard’s conclusion rather confused her, “Falling?”

“Yes, that thing she did with her arms, it’s called the Moro reflex. When a baby is startled or feels they are dropping they will throw out both arms, palms spread, and then draw them back in. It is presumed to be left over from an earlier stage of our evolution, to allow a baby to grab on to a branch or something if they fell. Here, I’ll show you again.” He stood and carefully shifted Rosie so she was perpendicular to his chest. He then proceed to bend over very quickly, causing her again to flail her arms out. This time she woke, giving him a look that could only be described as startled. It was quite cute actually, and Richard found himself smiling down at her.

“Richard!” Camille protested. She was trying to give him a disapproving look, and he supposed it wasn’t really his place to demonstrate neonatal reflexes with his colleague’s baby. He was pretty certain she was less annoyed then she was letting on though, because of the giggle she had inadvertently let out when Rosie had obliged them with a second performance of the reflex and the fact that she could barely suppress a smile now. “I wouldn’t let Juliet see you doing that, she’ll never let you hold Rosie again.”

“I’m sure I’ll cope,” he told her, though actually he thought he wasn’t doing too badly…

“How can you know about Moro reflexes and R.E.M in babies and _not_ know what scratch mittens are?” Camille asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

He would have thought the answer was obvious, “The Central Nervous System is interesting, whereas babies’ apparel is not.” She laughed at that.

“You know, as well as interesting, it’s pretty funny…” She tailed off, just looking at him, and Richard had a pretty good idea what she was after.

“You want me to get her to do it again?” Camille looked around, probably to confirm there was no sign of Fidel and Juliet, and then nodded enthusiastically.

He stood again, and the now awake (but still not crying, thankfully) baby gave him an almost suspicious look. “You ready?” He said to her, though it was more for Camille’s benefit, he doubted Rosie could understand the warning. He dipped her down quickly again and achieved another perfect Moro reflex. When he stood back up though, he realised he and Camille were no longer alone.

“What are you doing?” Juliet cried, walking briskly over and firmly removing her baby from his arms.

“Um,” Richard said, looking at Camille who too was busy biting her lip and looking guilty to help him out. “Just testing her reflexes?”

“I think we can leave that to the paediatricians!” Juliet cried, clearly angry with him. Richard was pretty sure that, as Camille had predicted, he had just held Rosie for the last time. Without any sort of farewell, Juliet turned and stormed from the restaurant.

Fidel hesitated though, and checking Juliet was out of ear shot said hurriedly, “Don’t worry, Sir, I do that all the time when Juliet isn’t looking. It is _really_ funny.” He then ran off after his wife.

Well, at least only one of Rosie’s parents hated him…

“That was your fault!” He said sharply to Camille.

She gave him a sympathetic look. “I’ll put in a good word with Juliet, I’m sure I can bring her round,” she promised. “I bet she’ll even let you babysit one day!”

Richard made a face, just because he didn’t mind holding a baby for ten minutes didn’t mean he wanted to look after them for a whole evening. Camille read his thoughts, “Not ready for nappy changes yet?”

“I think I’ll leave that to the professionals.”


	11. February 15th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people prefer the day after Valentine’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic licence used with the days of the week Valentine’s falls on here. Also slight silliness warning!

Richard had been immensely glad Valentine’s fell on a Saturday, which meant he could just hide out at his beach shack and avoid the whole thing. Well, at least for the actual day, he would have thought with the whole Erzulie festival thing Valentine’s would be a relatively small affair - if celebrated at all. But no, from the start of February onwards the island started to cover itself in hearts and flowers and other decorations.

He had assumed Camille would be forced into another blind date, but Camille informed him that Valentine’s was more for established relationships on Saint Marie. She seemed to despise Valentine’s with a similar intensity to himself, which has surprised him. Camille had told him of her intentions to curl up, watch old movies and read a good book. Richard had informed her he planned to do a bit of star gazing. She’d shown a surprising interest, asking questions about what exactly he planned to look at, and for one wild moment he had thought that she was actually angling for an invitation. But why the hell would she want to spend any weekend with him, let alone Valentine’s?

So he made no attempt to invite her, and decided he was imaging the fact she looked a little disappointed as they said goodbye.

 

* * *

 

 

He was the first one in Monday morning. Somebody had turned off the fans over the weekend and the office was sweltering. He headed straight to the fridge to retrieve cold water, but upon opening the door discovered the usually half empty appliance was entirely full. There were boxes and boxes and boxes of chocolate. Heart shaped boxes mostly, so clearly related to Valentine’s Day. He knew Dwayne could be the subject of a lot of female attention, but he didn’t think it was _this_ much. Bending over to examine the fridge properly, he realised there wasn’t _anything_ in there except chocolate.

Richard heard Camille call out a greeting, and he stood up intending to call her over to look at the fridge, but before he could she started apologising.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I know I filled the fridge and took out the water! But they would melt if I didn’t put them in!” She explained hurriedly.

It took him a moment to process that information, “You mean all this chocolate it _yours_?” She nodded, looking guilty. “Can’t you keep it in your own fridge?” He asked as he glumly picked up the luke warm bottle of water that now stood next to the fridge, rather than in it.

She grimaced, “That is sort of full as well…”

Richard found himself suddenly overcome by an emotion he believed was jealousy. He refused to contemplate the meaning of it. However he couldn’t resist commenting in the hopes of gaining a little more information. “Um,” he began hesitantly. “I didn’t realise you had that many male admirers.”

Camille burst into laughter, which made Richard feel rather despondent. _Of course_ she had admirers, she could probably have her pick of any man on the bloody island. If he thought about it, she was probably single through her own choice – wanted to concentrate on her career or something. Women did that, right? Probably didn’t like her mother forcing her on blind dates because she knew exactly what she wanted and that she could have it at any time. He was an idiot – and she was still laughing.

Embarrassed, he lashed out a little, “Ok, I get it, of course you have men after you.” He brushed past her towards his desk, intending to bury his head in paperwork and ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.

“No! No, it’s just, oh Richard, I bought them all myself.” She had stopped giggling now, but was still smiling. “Though it is very sweet you think I could attract enough men to be _that_ inundated with gifts.”

“Well, you know…” he wanted to say something like ’you are beautiful’ or ‘any man would be lucky to have you’ - but that wasn’t going to happen. To cover up his inability to finish the sentence he decided make further enquiries regarding the chocolate horde. “Why on earth did you buy so much chocolate?”

She perched on the edge of her desk and said brightly, “Oh I always go out every year on the day after Valentines! The best thing about the stupid holiday is the half price chocolate on the 15th.”

“Right,” he said, still not sure that fully explained the situation. “So, I can understand buying a few boxes, but you seem to have purchased enough to get you through a nuclear winter…And, by the way, in doing so have displaced the only thing I keep in the fridge which is water!”

“I know, I’m sorry! I fully intend to share the chocolates!” That actually went a long way towards making up for it and he suspected she knew that – Richard had suffered more than a little teasing on the subject of his sweet tooth. “I _did_ go a little…” He shot her a look at her use of the qualifier ‘a little’ and she corrected, “I did go completely overboard this year. I was a bit down, so I blame that.”

Normally, Richard didn’t like to enquire about people’s emotions, because then he might have to deal with them. But Camille saying she had been feeling ‘down’ puzzled him, as she had seemed quite content with her weekend plans when they had spoken on Friday. That demanded further investigation. It had nothing to do with the fact that long ago he had realised he desperately cared about how Camille felt at any given moment.

“I thought you were quite looking forward to your weekend?” He asked casually.

Camille took her time responding to this, “Well, I was, but then I realised that there were things I would rather be doing, places I’d rather be, people I’d rather see…”

He was back to being confused again, “So why didn’t you just do those things?”

Again, she seemed to consider her answer carefully, “They required…an invitation. Which I did not receive.” His mind immediately leapt back to them sitting together in her mother’s bar, his brief belief she had wanted to be invited over. Was that what she was referring to? The only way to be sure would be to ask, and that was never going to happen.

But perhaps he could drop vague hints of his own, “You should have just turned up anyway.”

She looked at him in surprise, “Wouldn’t that be a bit rude?”

Richard didn’t look at her, instead he addressed his comments to the computer screen, “Well, you know, you’re, um, well liked. People enjoy your company. I doubt anyone would mind if you just dropped by.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” He could hear the smile in her voice, a quick glance up confirmed he was correct – she actually looked rather pleased.

“Open the pralines first,” he told her. Camille’s face creased up in confusion. “From the fridge, get them out and then you can stick my water back in whilst you’re at it.”

“You want chocolate now?” She asked, aghast. “Richard it is half past eight in the morning!”

He looked at her and said, very seriously, “It is never too early for chocolate.”

She let out a small laugh and retrieved the chocolates as instructed.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now if you’ll excuse me, I am off to see what chocolaty bargains I can hunt down!


	12. Past and Future Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catherine is a little surprised to learn Richard is interested in women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between episode 3 and 4 of series one. Very busy at the moment so sorry about the lack of fics recently, it sort of drains your creativity. And though I continue to sneak in references, I am sure you lot don’t want to be reading about plant pests and diseases either.

Now Richard knew it was the only place on the island to get a decent cup of tea, he would make the occasional appearance at Catherine’s after work. Not that he would stay any longer than was necessary to drink the aforementioned cup of tea. Or accept any invitation to come out at any other time except directly after work. As they walked in, Catherine was chatting to a rather pretty English woman at the bar, who instantly caught Dwayne’s attention.

“Nothing would make me happier than a cup of tea!” She was telling Catherine. Camille shot a sideways glance at her boss, until this moment the only person she thought would drink tea in this heat, but he hadn’t reacted to her statement.

“I can bring it to your table,” Catherine told her with a smile.

Meanwhile, Dwayne had sidled up next to the woman, “I think if you gave me a chance, I could make you happy as well!”

“Why, are you leaving?” She shot off smartly.

Camille heard Richard make a little noise of amusement. Feeling bad for Dwayne she offered him a sympathetic smile. The woman breezed past them all and out to a table on the patio, Richard briefly following her progress.

“Oh never mind,” Catherine said, leaning across the bar to kiss her daughter hello. “This island gets plenty of visits from lovely English ladies like her!” Dwayne was looking miffed, Camille and Fidel confused – because her comment had not been directed at Dwayne, but Richard.

“Sorry?” Richard said, doing his best to look confused by Catherine’s attention. Camille studied him and realised he was tense – clearly her mother had seen something she had entirely.

“Oh I saw you, no use pretending. Pretty girl like that, wants a cup of tea, knows how to shoot off a sarcastic comment, you’d decided you quite liked her. Checked for a wedding ring as she went past and was disappointed when you saw she had one.” Catherine’s observational skills could probably be put to very good use by the police or other security agencies.

“I…” Richard began, than apparently decided the best course of action was to ignore the comment, rather than attempt to deny it. “I would like a cup of tea, please.”

Dwayne had brightened up considerably, “Oh, she was _married_ – that was the only reason she shot me down!” He looked genuinely relieved, and Fidel rolled his eyes behind the older officer’s back. Dwayne would _always_ believe he was, in fact, God’s gift to women.

Catherine ignored Dwayne, persisted in her comfort-come-teasing of Richard, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like something a bit stronger, drown your sorrows? I have some nice rum from Dominica in!”

“No, I am certain I would just like a cup of tea.” He said firmly, then added, “And I have no sorrows to drown.”

Catherine looked mildly offended by his denial. She passed beers to the boys and Camille, the former disappeared off to make themselves comfortable, but her daughter remained probably in order to enjoy watching her boss being wound up. “There is no point being so stand-offish about it,” Catherine told him as she busied herself having to prepare two tea sets. “Actually, you know, I wasn’t even sure you _liked_ women.”

“Well some of them can be a bit annoying,” Richard replied, determinedly not looking at Camille when he did so.

Of course, that had not exactly been Catherine’s meaning, “No! I meant I thought you were gay, you know, how do they say – but in the wardrobe? So often you seem to avoid looking at women, and you are a bit anti-social. I thought perhaps you were trying to prevent people finding out, because it is a bit taboo as you are a policeman.”

Camille did sort of expect her boss to start spluttering, getting indignant and wanting to know _why_ on earth Catherine thought he was gay. Certainly it would be the reaction of most straight men of his age. Until now, her mother had never mentioned her suspicions to Camille – but then Richard had been around for only a month or so. Perhaps she had been biding her time to confirm her suspicions – which was wise, since they had been proved incorrect. If she _had_ asked Camille she would have been able to tell her she was wrong – not because she had seen Richard take an active interest in a woman like Catherine had spotted, but because a few times she had caught him stealing the odd glance at her legs. At first she had thought it was disapproval at her choice of clothing, and she thought on some level he probably did have those thoughts, but mostly the glances were definitely more about an appreciation of her bare legs. He would probably be mortified if he knew she knew though.

But he didn’t get indignant about Catherine thinking he was gay at all, he got indignant about something else entirely. “The Metropolitan Police are an equal opportunities employer. Officers are hired on the basis of their qualifications and suitability to the job, not because of their gender, sexual orientation, race or religion.”  

“Of course they are,” Catherine conceded, once she was over the initial surprise. “But I bet it wasn’t _always_ that way.”

“No, you’re right,” Richard admitted. “There were a couple of constables in my intake who were openly gay and they did have to put up with _a lot_. And they just used to put up with it as well. I mean they would have been well within their rights to complain about their treatment but they didn’t.”

“Well, they probably thought that would just lead to more trouble for them,” Camille said, and Richard nodded in agreement as he accepted his tea from Catherine, who then left to deliver the tray to her other tea-drinking customer.

“Yes, and they would have been right. I’m pretty sure things are different now but then I never really got inv- um, went down to the pub once I was in CID. That is where that sort of thing usually happened, there and the locker room.”

Camille decided to ignore the fact he had tried (and failed) to cover up his unpopularity at his old post. They were all well aware of the fact thanks to Dwayne’s probing. At first, Camille would have agreed whole heartedly with his former colleagues, she couldn’t stand him. But on their more recent cases she had started to get to know him a bit better. Camille liked to think she knew a fair bit of psychology, and began to see his brashness as a shield. He was not your average policeman, you had to be smart to do the job but Richard’s intelligence was almost intimidating. That, combined with his desire to stick _very_ firmly to the rules, had probably not made him popular. 

Camille reckoned there was probably something else he had done, or not done, that hadn’t helped him be accepted by his fellow officers. “You aren’t the sort of person who’d join in with that sort of bullying disguised as banter.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement, she knew it was true. “In fact I imagine you told them all they should lay off, quite possible whilst quoting Metropolitan Police guidelines on Professional Standards and Conduct. Which would then have made you as much as a target as the people you were doing your best to protect.”

He hunched over his tea, not responding and thus confirming everything she had said was true. She’d made him uncomfortable, which had not been her intention in the slightest, and she wasn’t even sure he realised what she was trying to say. So she decided to be more direct, “Well, round here, the first part wouldn’t happen so you’d never have to do the second. If we do tease you, it is just that, so there is one thing you no longer need to worry about. Which is good, because you now potentially have a much bigger problem.”

“What’s that?” He asked, looked really rather concerned.

“Now my Mother knows you are interested in women, she’ll start trying to figure out your type so she can set you up with somebody!” She gave him a bright smile, one that only got bigger as a look of horror passed over his features.

He looked suddenly resolute, “That is not going to happen.”

“Oh really? Well you can certainly refuse to go on the dates, but she _will_ just find other ways to introduce you to women,” she teased.

“No, because she won’t even manage to get to the stage where she figures out my type!” Richard seemed pretty confident.

“Maybe I’ll help her, I like a challenge. I reckon I can figure it out.” He huffed, shaking his head and returning his attention to his tea, clearly wanting the conversation to be over. Camille wasn’t quite ready to let it go yet. “Brunettes? Blondes? Red heads?” She tried, but he ignored her studiously. “Bald, perhaps?”

He put down his empty cup with a sigh.

 


	13. Fracture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is rapidly undoing the brownie points he had earned by whinging.

Camille was not sure for how much longer she could resist the urge to roll her eyes. She was grateful for his attempted intervention, it was sweet of him to step between her and the suspect and take the blow that had been aimed at her. But as sweet as that intervention was, it was also entirely unnecessary. Richard was currently extremely annoyed not only because he was stuck on a bed in A & E whilst they figured out just how badly his collar bone was broken by the fall, but because he blamed Camille for winding up the suspect enough to make him react violently in the first place.

Admittedly, it wasn’t always the wisest technique to use when questioning suspected murderers. But Camille lacked Richard’s patience, his belief that they would _always_ collect all the evidence they needed for a successful conviction eventually, she much preferred to get confessions. And if not a confession, an act that certainly showed up somebody’s true temperament.

“This is your fault, you know,” he said, shooting her a glare.

Camille reminded herself the man was in pain. He had refused painkillers stronger than paracetamol, though she suspected he might have taken them if she wasn’t around. She wasn’t sure if he was refusing better drugs in an attempt to impress her, or because it gave him more of an opportunity to moan. Knowing Richard, probably a little of both.

“You mentioned that at the scene,” She said, with what she thought might be in the very last of her patience. “Also in the ambulance on the way here, and a couple of times since we arrived as well.”

He didn’t like the sarcastic answer and Camille was the recipient of another glare. She just smiled in return, “I told you I thought it was sweet.”

“No, your precise words were ‘that was idiotic, Sir, but sort of sweet I suppose’. I would hardly call that significant recognition of the danger I put myself in to protect _you_ from _your_ own stupid actions!”

“Well you should know I can look after myself!” She snapped back, finally giving in and rolling her eyes. Truth was she felt really guilty, and was covering it by pretending she had a case to be annoyed at him for not trusting her to be able to take down a suspect. She wasn’t quite ready to deal with the many and varied emotions she had gone through when he’d been knocked to the ground, so was just sticking with annoyance. After a silence in which they both stared moodily at the floor, something inside her gave way and she asked, “Do you want me to go see if I can find you a cup of a tea?”

Her offer did not have the desired effect of cheering him up. “Well, first off any tea in this hospital would probably be so bad it would manage to make me feel worse and secondly I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything until they have decided if I need surgery or not.”

Camille shifted guiltily, she probably should have remembered that. “Right, yes,” she said. They went back to staring in opposite directions. Some people might find the awkwardness all too much, and simply have left, after all she could always call in Dwayne and Fidel to take over. But Camille knew there wasn’t a chance in hell she would leave him unless ordered to do so. And possibly not even then. She glanced at him quickly, he was picking at a loose threat on the sheet with his good hand. Oh, what the hell, she could be the bigger person.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, surprising him. “It was nice, and brave, and I appreciate what you did. So, thanks again.”

“Oh,” he said stupidly. Despite his moaning for the past hour basically implying she should have said that ages ago, he seemed uncomfortable by her expression of gratitude. For some reason, this gave her a warm feeling inside. “Well, you know, no bother,” he continued.

“No bother? You have a fractured clavicle! And it’s my fault!” She protested at his sudden modesty. Honestly, it was infuriating really, he got what he wanted from her and now he became all dismissive of the incident.

“Well, you know, not the end of the world.” She couldn’t help herself, a little burst of laughter escaped her at his sudden change of attitude, he was so _very_ English.

“What’s so funny?” He asked her, frowning. She supposed it wasn’t very nice to laugh at him when he was injured, but it stemmed from affection really.

Camille was suddenly overwhelmed by a desire to do something she suspected might end up making him feel even more uncomfortable, but maybe that was good for him – little by little they had been getting Richard to relax and enjoy life on Saint Marie, this could just be another lesson.

She sat on the bed next to him. “What are you doing?” He asked instantly.

“Well, I want to hug you, but you can’t get out of bed so I am going to just have to get in there with you!”

“I, um, well…” he began to splutter, but Camille just ignored him and curled up carefully against his good side, resting her head gently against his shoulder. She was surprised by how intently thankful she was that he was, largely, ok. He wasn’t saying anything, and he seemed far too tense for somebody was supposed to be receiving a hug, but at least he wasn’t asking her to stop. She smiled as she felt him shift his head and briefly press his lips to the top of her head, as if he thought if he did it fast enough she might not notice.

Well at least the fracture between them was healed.


	14. Zumba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard can’t quite believe people do that and call it exercise.

As they walked towards the gym Richard asked Camille, “What _is_ Zumba, anyway? Doesn’t sound like any form of exercise I have ever heard of.”

She really should have realised before that he would have no clue what Zumba was, if he had he may not have come along to observe the end of the class that was being taught by a woman they wished to question regarding their current case. She was really rather looking forward to seeing his reaction now.

“Oh, just a form of aerobics really,” she told him, trying to sound dismissive.

“Then why don’t they just call it aerobics?” He followed up immediately.

“It’s a little more…high impact than most form of aerobics,” she offered, before turning to ask the receptionist for directions to the class. Since Richard didn’t persist with his questioning her answer must have been acceptable to him.

They need not have asked for the directions really, instead they could have just followed the hip-hop and salsa beats to their source. Richard frowned as they got closer and the volume got louder. Camille suspected if she lay a hand on the wall, it would be vibrating.

“Seems a bit loud,” he commented.

“Well, like I have said before, it’s so you can hear the rhythm.” She then turned away from him and pushed open the double doors, quickly turning back so she could see his reaction.

“Oh dear Lord,” he said, as his eyes took in the room full of scantily clad, sweaty women. At least, that is what Camille thought he said, she had to rely largely on her lip reading skills since the horrendously loud music had drowned him out entirely.

The teacher, who was expecting them, gave Camille a little wave. Perplexed, the class seemed to think this was some kind of new move, and copied her. There were giggles all round when the mistake was realised. The women returned to their routine, performing a series of squats interspersed with some twirling, that caused Richard to blush and promptly turn to face the wall.

“What are you doing?” Camille asked him in a half shout. She was amused by his embarrassment.

“I just…don’t think they expected to have a male observer,” he shouted back, as if his actions stemmed from chivalry rather than discomfort. “In fact, perhaps I should wait down the hall.”

She reached out to grab him arm and stop him leaving, “Don’t be silly Richard, this is a confident bunch of ladies and they don’t mind having you in the room.” He wasn’t trying to leave anymore, but he was still facing the wall. “You know I might take it up myself.” For some reason that idea seemed to make him even more uncomfortable.

The next routine began and Camille couldn’t help herself. She rapidly worked out the sequence of moves and waited until the start of the next chorus before saying to Richard, “You staring at the wall is more likely to make them feel self-conscious.” She chided him. “You should turn around really, this routine is hardly like the other one.” Taking on board her suggestion, Richard Poole turned around to find 30 odd women, of all shapes and ages, shaking what their mother gave them in his direction. For a moment, Camille honestly thought he might faint he went so pale, but then he seemed to realise he had been set up and turned to scowl at her.  

“Maybe we could take a class together?” She suggested cheekily, shooting him a grin. He remained unimpressed. In fact, he looked like his was gearing up for a full blown rant.

“That is _not_ an offer I will be taking you up on,” he said firmly, still having to half shout to be heard.  He then muttered something else that Camille didn’t catch.

“What was that?” She shouted back, leaning in to hear him.

Richard sighed and repeated, “I SAID IT’S PRACTICALLY INDECENT!” He need not have actually shouted that last part because, of course, at that moment the music cut. Thus every women in the room heard him call their actions ‘practically indecent’ and turned, on mass, to glare at him. If Richard was smart, he could have immediately explained he was talking about something else – perhaps a bad joke somebody had told him – but instead he just stared wide eyed back looking as guilty as sin.

Camille shifted and suggested quietly, “Perhaps you _should_ go wait down the hall.”

“Yup,” he agreed, shooting off immediately.

 

* * *

 

 

He was still more than a little mortified as they sat in _La Kaz_ that evening, him drinking his tea and her with a beer. To rub salt in the wound, the leader of the class had absolutely nothing of use to tell them.

“He looks traumatised,” Dwayne said and he joined them. Fidel had headed straight home after work for a family meal.

“Ok, one, I am right here,” Richard told Dwayne firmly. “And two, I _am_ quite traumatised!”

“More or less than when you had to hold that woman’s nipple in place?” Camille asked teasingly.

“Perhaps surprisingly, I would say more.”

“What exactly happened?” Dwayne asked, sure there must be a good story to be had.

“Richard witnessed a Zumba class, which apparently does not fit with his Victorian attitudes towards women.”

“I do _not_ have Victorian attitudes towards women,” he snapped. She smiled at him so he would realise she was only teasing him, and didn’t mean it. Seeing her smile he did relax a little. “It _was_ rather provocative though, I am not sure it is exercise really, it looked more like some sort of elaborate mating dance practised by an isolated tribe!”

“Oh, come of Chief, it’s just dancing! I love Zumba!” Dwayne cried. His statement earned him a long stare from both his colleagues.

“You’ve taken Zumba classes, Dwayne?” Camille eventually asked.

“I’ve been to a few,” he admitted, without any apparent shame. “Me and an instructor used to hang out, if you know what I mean.”

“WE DO!” Camille and Richard said loudly at the same time, in case Dwayne was tempted to elaborate.

“Oh what was that move I used to really love?” He said thoughtfully, then stood up and was suddenly shaking his hips whilst humming some upbeat tune. “This is it! Are they still doing this one?” Camille was overtaken by giggles, but managed to nod her head to indicate that they were.

Richard was back to just staring again. When Dwayne sat back down again he said, faintly, “Of _course_ you’ve done Zumba.” After a second’s silence, he then burst into laughter.

And it didn’t stop. Camille was smiling initially, his reaction made her realise how much she loved the sound of his laughter, and Dwayne also seemed entertained by his boss’ sudden fit of giggles. But after a full minute passed with no sign of let up, amusement gave way to concern.

“Perhaps this time it is heat stroke,” Dwayne suggested to Camille.

“I don’t know, he has his jacket off,” she pointed out. “Perhaps it is some sort of breakdown?”

Richard was too busy wiping tears from his eyes to pay attention to what his fellow officers were saying about him. “I might get him a glass of cold water anyway,” Dwayne said as he rose from the table, leaving Camille alone with her hysterical boss.

“Oh, where’s he going?” Richard asked, apparently finally recovering.

“To get a drink,” Camille said, studying her boss carefully. He didn’t look like he was about to leap up and start taking hostages or some equally drastic action, so perhaps it wasn’t a breakdown. “Are you ok now?” She asked carefully.

“Ok? Of course I am ok! Never happier!”

That last bit surprised her, and she felt the need to push for more detail, “I didn’t realise you would find Dwayne’s participation in Zumba so hysterical…”

“Oh, it’s not that really,” he said, facing her and smiling in a way that made him look years younger and her feel it. She was suddenly as giddy as a teenage girl. “It’s just never, in a 100 years, would that have happened in Croydon.”

“Well, perhaps not, though I am sure you have Zumba in London.”

“They probably do,” he conceded. “But the point is that since I got here, I’ve experienced a lot of things I never imagined I’d experience and, you know, it’s nice.”

“It’s nice?” She asked for confirmation, that wasn’t the impression he had given in the past.

He nodded, still smiling, “Actually it’s more than nice, it’s fantastic. Keeps me on my toes.”

“I’m…well…” Camille suddenly found herself the one who was unable to express her emotions. “I’m glad.”

“Well, who knows what thing I thought would never happen to me will happen next…” They shared one of those significant, lingering looks and if she didn’t know Dwayne was heading back over to the table she may well have gone further than just a look.

 

 


	15. The Museum of Ancient Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a hundred things they could be doing outside on this glorious day but no, they are in a museum dedicated to old bits of glass.

“Oh look, a slightly blue piece of old glass!” Camille made no effort to keep the sarcasm out of her tone. For the past forty minutes she had attempted to express her boredom in much more subtle ways, but they had all failed, so she decided a much direct approach was required.

“Ah yes, we are moving into the Roman production period,” Richard said in reply to her comment. She knew that he knew she had been being sarcastic and his response to that was apparently to ignore the fact entirely. Camille was also pretty sure he would realise how much that approach would annoy her. But the worst thing about the reply? He’d said they were _starting_ at the Roman glass – who knew how many more displays there would be until the glass no longer qualified as “ancient” and thus unsuitable for the museum? “It’s specifically cobalt blue, quite common in this early Roman period. In case you’re were wondering.”

She hadn’t been, and she intended to make that clear. “Richard, there are a hundred wonderful things we could be doing outside on this beautiful day – and I would prefer to do each and every one of them rather than visiting a Museum of Ancient Glass!”

They had been sent to Montserrat for work, the police force was rapidly expanding now people were returning to the area after the volcanic eruption of 1995. The recently built airport meant the island was open for tourists again, and many people who had chosen to migrate back to the UK were returning home. But that police force still had limited resources and, since Saint Marie did so well considering their limited resources, they had been asked to come and provide some training. Camille had never been to the island before and had been excited by the prospect, especially since it involved 2 days off when sight-seeing would be perfectly acceptable. But then when she had practically skipped into breakfast that morning and asked what his plans were, he had said “The Museum of Ancient Glass” – a place that hadn’t even been on her radar. It had sounded dull, but to her surprise the entry in the guide book had been quite positive. So she had shrugged and decided to go with him.

A choice she now regretted. It was pretty much a museum filled with random items made of glass, and most of them broken. Bottles, saucers, mosaic tiles…you name it, if the ‘ancients’ made it from glass, it was here. There were signs up on the wall explaining the history of glass making, but they were long and far too wordy for her to be bothered to read. She had tried with the first few, and was left confused by references to “Hellenistic” glass making – she had thought that meant pursuing things for pleasure, and she couldn’t imagine anybody enjoyed glass making _that_ much. A quick check on her phone showed she had confused the word with hedonistic, and she was profoundly glass she hadn’t said anything to Richard.

Over the sound system there was some sort of ethereal music playing, at first she had thought it pretty – it certainly fit the mood of the place, but now its repetitive nature was very much getting on her nerves. Richard had also tisked at her when she had pulled out her phone to take a picture, pointing at a sign on the wall depicting a camera with a red cross through it. This had led to a short but intense whispered argument concerning the interpretation of the sign (after all, it didn’t show a _phone_ ) that he eventually won and she was forced to sullenly return her phone to her bag.

“I think you are failing to appreciate the importance of these broken bits of glass,” Richard said now. She opened her mouth to protest that she was perfectly aware they were _important_ but that didn’t mean they were _interesting_ , but he didn’t give her the chance to speak. “You know they say that grape and grain are the reasons why the west had an industrial revolution as opposed to an industrious one, like the East.”

“Really,” Camille said dryly, knowing that until he gave his little lecture there would be no reasoning with him. Though she had no idea how they had gone from glass to grapes and grain, she was sure she was about to be enlightened.

“Yes, grain because by growing wheat and similar cereals that require processing before they are palatable we had to develop the technology necessary to mill them. And grape because wine was a beautiful colour, so we developed glass to drink it from.” She still wasn’t sure what that had to do with the industrial revolution, but once again he cut her off before she could ask him to get to the point. “Glass is extremely important in all sorts of processes. Lenses, electrical competent, fibre glass…”

“Yes!” Camille said shortly, as she was certain Richard could probably list uses of glass for a good hour. “So you are saying because the Romans liked wine, now we have super-fast broadband. Lovely. I don’t need to look at old bits of glass to appreciate that. In fact I think we should appreciate that fact by going and having some wine by the coast. They say the sunset here over the ocean is one of the most beautiful in the world.” She gave him her best and brightest smile, but it didn’t seem to impress.

To Camille’s surprise, he put both hands on her shoulders and firmly turned her around, to indicate the cabinet she was standing in front of but hadn’t really looked at yet. It contained a series of examples of glass cameos. They were probably the prettiest thing she had seen in the museum so far.

“Experts aren’t entirely sure how the Romans were able to produce most of these given the technology of the time, but they are rare so great skill must have been involved. One theory is that they took the inner glass layer and hand shaped it, before dipping the entire thing into molten glass of another colour. Roman glass is very fragile, they would have to spend hours carving to reveal the colours underneath without fracturing the entire thing. The best way to appreciate it, surely, is to _look_ at it.” Camille was a little taken aback by his firmness. She also knew that his argument was pretty sound.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted eventually. They seemed to become aware at the same time that Richard still had his hands on her shoulders, and he quickly let go and stepped back. She found she missed the contact almost immediately.

“So you going to stop complaining then?” He asked, immediately riling her temper again. Camille swore he said that sort of thing in purpose.

“ _You_ complained when I took you to a museum!” She was quick to point out.

“I wasn’t complaining about the museum _per se_ ,” he protested immediately. “It was the complete and utter ridiculousness of them going on about pirate’s curses! A museum should be a place of historical fact, and education, not bloody story time for gullible tourists!” His voice rose loud enough that it attracted the attention of one of the employees in another room, who stuck her head through the door and gave them both a quelling look.

Camille wasn’t quite ready to end the argument yet. “There is nothing wrong with adding a bit of colour,” she hissed at him.

“There is a difference between colour and fantasy!” He hissed right back. “Besides, you didn’t have to come with me. You could have gone off and done whatever you wanted to do.”

“I wish I had!”

“Then why didn’t you?”

To her annoyance, Camille couldn’t come up with an answer immediately. She knew the real reason, but she wasn’t ready to say it and was certain he wasn’t ready to hear it. Eventually she said, “It wouldn’t have been nice to make you go on your own.”

“Oh yes it would have been simply _terrible_ to have been left alone to enjoy the museum in peace,” he told her. “I can assure you I am perfectly used to doing things on your own.”

“And I’ve told _you_ that you don’t have to anymore.” Now it was Richard’s turn to be stumped on how to answer. Camille bit her lip and stared at the floor, wondering if there was anything she could do to diffuse the sudden awkwardness that had arisen.

“We can do something you want to do after this,” he said suddenly. She looked up to gauge if he was being serious.

“Really?”

“Sure,” he said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Anything I want?” She asked, with a cheeky grin. She watched as a look of panic came across his features.

“Well, um, you know, within reason…”

She decided to rescue him, “Because I would like to go watch that sunset.”

He brightened immediately, “Oh, me too actually. I hear they get a good green flash here quite often.”

“Green flash?” She asked, no clue what he was on about.

“Ah, well, you see the green flash is an optical phenomena that occurs sometimes just after sunset. It’s caused by the fact that the atmosphere….”

Richard stopped when Camille raised a hand, “Just before you explain the whole thing, tell me, can these green flashes be enjoyed whilst drinking wine?”

He gave her a bemused look, “I suppose so.”

“Well, sunset is in an hour! We better go get some wine,” she said seriously. “You can explain the green flash thing on the way.”

Camille hoped she could get enough wine into him that he would be done with the science by sunset, and instead be able to appreciate the beauty of the thing. And perhaps even the romance…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I haven’t written in some time. I thought I would ease myself back in with a little ficlet. I was inspired after a conversation with Willowsticks about my recent holiday.   
> The actual Museum of Ancient Glass is located in Zadar, Croatia (which also has very nice sunsets.) There is no logical reason why Montserrat would have one, but there is even less reason why Richard and Camille would be in Zadar. But oh well, it is just a story! In case you’re wondering, my experience of the museum was close to Camille’s, whereas my travelling companion was very much like Richard. And sadly he spent more time trying to get the perfect shot of the sunset (and the green flash) then he did appreciating the romance.


	16. Poetry Please

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not everything is as romantic as it seems.

Richard knew that some couples were just more affectionate than others. Apart from hand holding, most public displays of affection made him uncomfortable. Of course they did, he knew how _very_ English he was. But he knew deep down that in most cases that was _his_ problem, and people weren’t trying to deliberately offend him. So he would avert his gaze from couples sharing kisses in the park or on the street and try to pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening. Camille, he noticed, would always smile fondly at such scenes (though wouldn’t openly stare, of course) and Richard knew she found his discomfit amusing.

Now, admittedly, this couple weren’t in public but in their own home. Regardless, this couple and their affection displays, _whilst they were being interviewed about a murder,_ quite simply took the biscuit. First, there were the pet names – Richard was sure he had counted at least 6 different ones used in the space of 10 minutes. Honey bunny, sugar, princess, light of my life and something in French Richard was pretty sure translated to “my little cabbage”. It was quite simply ridiculous – Richard didn’t know why they couldn’t pick one affectionate term and stick with it. Or, God forbid, just use their _actual_ names.

Then there were the pauses in the interview whilst they took the opportunity to…partake in various forms of physical intimacy. He didn’t mean they stopped for long periods of kissing, he didn’t think even Camille would put up with that for long. There was probably some ‘cute’ term to describe the various types of cuddles and caresses they took part in but Richard wasn’t interested in learning them. He had to bite his tongue very firmly in order to stop commenting, his efforts aided by the glare his Detective Sergeant threw him when she sensed his patience was wearing thin with the couple.

But the thing that really did his head in? _That_ was the poetry.

“When is the big day?” Camille had asked as they were preparing to leave, indicating the rather large diamond ring on the young woman’s finger. Richard hadn’t noticed it before now, though he wasn’t sure how he could miss it – the thing was the size of a small rock and really rather gaudy.

“Oh we haven’t set a date yet!” The girl gushed. “My main man here only proposed to me 3 days ago!” Richard supposed that explained how loved up they were, and he felt some momentary guilt for judging them. Until the woman continued, “And do you know _how_ he proposed?”

Richard didn’t know, nor did he care, but he knew Camille was going to encourage her to continue. He opened his mouth to insist they really needed to be leaving to continue with their investigations but Camille got in there before him. “Oh please tell me how?” She asked loudly, with a poignant look at him.

“With _a poem_!” She cried.

“Oh you write poetry?” Camille asked the ‘main man’ in question. He demurred but his finance was keen they learn more about his apparent talents.

“My Babycakes is a _very_ talented poet! He makes me up verses _all the time_.”

“Sweet potato it is only because you provide me with such inspiration,” he told his future wife, gazing deeply into her eyes. Richard couldn’t believe people _this_ in love actually existed. “Because I love, the sun pours out its rays of living gold, pours out its gold and silver on the sea. Because I love, the Earth upon her astral spindle winds, her ecstasy-producing dance.” The two women in the room beamed in response to this provided poetry. Richard, however, was entirely unimpressed. “I believe I may have more for you by this afternoon, my sweetness, but I fear I must leave myself to go to work.”

“Henry is a nurse,” the girl explained proudly. Richard thought it was a minor miracle she had actually used her fiancés name.  

“Well it is time we left as well,” Camille said. “Good luck with your wedding and thank you for your help!”

Richard didn’t try to hide his relief at managing to escape the couple. As he climbed into the passenger seat Camille shot him an irritated look, “Did you have to be so obvious in there?”

“Obvious about what?” He asked, feigning ignorance.

“They are a young couple, in love, getting married. You could have _pretended_ to be happy for them rather than just looking grumpy the whole time!” She said a little snappily. “I would have thought that even you, especially as a man who appreciates literature, would have been a little impressed by the poetry. Come on, that was good!”

Richard realised that in this moment, he had a significant advantage over Camille – he knew something she didn’t. He cleared his throat and said clearly, “Because I love, the ferns grow green, and green the grass, and green the transparent sunlit trees. Because I love the iridescent shells upon the sand, takes form as fine and intricate as thought.”

He stopped there, to find Camille staring at him with amazement. The look she gave him was intense, and made his heart beat a little faster and there was a sudden feeling of butterflies in his stomach. In wonder she asked, “Did you just make that up now? That was _beautiful_.” Richard realised he really rather _liked_ the way Camille was looking at him and, in a moment of weakness, he very nearly said yes. But then honesty got the better of him.

“No, of course I didn’t,” he said with a sigh. “It’s a poem by Kathleen Raine, an English poetess and winner of the Queen’s medal for poetry. Not sure those verses are actually the next ones that follow, mind, they are just two that stick in my mind. It would seem Henry is stealing other’s work and claiming it as his own. Clever of him to use a poet most people haven’t heard of, if he’d gone for Shakespeare’s sonnets he would have been caught out very quickly.”

Camille looked genuinely devastated by his revelation. “You mean he is _lying_ to her?” She asked. “Why didn’t you tell the poor girl?”

“Camille!” He cried, a little surprised at her. “It’s not my job to ruin the relationship of young couples! Now if he was publishing the work and claiming it as his own, that would be different and I’d be forced to act. But he isn’t – and besides, I am sure their relationship is based on a little more than just poetry. Or at least I hope it is.”

“I suppose you are right,” Camille admitted. Then, after a pause, a slow smile spread across her face. Warning bells rang in Richard’s head. “Soooo…” She said, drawing the word out. “How do _you_ know that particular poem? I mean you were able to recognise it and quote it. Do you read a lot of _love_ poems?”

“I studied a module on poetry at university,” Richard said, glad he had that excuse. He thought it would be the end of the matter but sadly that was not the case.

“You studied poetry during your _history_ degree?”

Ah, she had him there. “Well, the University of Cambridge encourages students to take the odd module outside of their main degree subject,” he explained. This was also perfectly true.

“What was the name of the module?” Camille asked curiously.

There was no way he had time to make up something realistic sounding, so instead he lied, “Can’t really remember.” He remembered perfectly – it was ‘Development of Love Poetry during the Twentieth Century’. There was no way he was telling Camille that, God knows what she would do with ammunition like that.

“And why exactly did you chose a module in poetry?” She continued to pry.

“Camille, does this have any further relevance to the case?” He shot back. She shook her head. “Then I don’t think it needs further discussion.”

Richard was relieved as Camille seemed to accept this, and turned in her seat to finally start the engine of the Defender. They pulled off in blissful silence and just as Richard was daring to believe she had actually dropped the subject she asked, “Was it to impress a girl?”

“Camille!” He snapped. He was annoyed she had figured that out so quickly, the woman had practically paranormal abilities to deduce such things.

“Okay, okay…” She said, rolling her eyes when she thought he wasn’t looking. A moment later she said, “I take it it didn’t work.” He chose to just ignore her this time, but she knew she was right, he could tell from the little smile of triumph on her face. “Well, I wouldn’t give up entirely. Perhaps the next girl will be impressed by your knowledge of poetry…” He shot her a sideways look, but now she seemed to be avoiding his gaze, and Richard wasn’t quite sure what to make of that last comment.

Unless she was implying that she…nope, that couldn’t possibly be the case.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard thought, or perhaps hoped, that Camille had forgotten the whole incident. He based this on the fact that weeks went by without her mentioning it again, not even when they had to go back to clarify a few things from the young couple’s statement.

But then his birthday came around, and he opened the gift she passed him to find it was a copy of _The Nation’s Favourite Love Poems_. Richard knew then it was not something he would _ever_ live down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had this idea for ages but I couldn’t find the right poem until recently. It is “Because I Love” by Kathleen Raine.


	17. Not the Usual Sort of Compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard has never been this relaxed in the face of an armed individual, ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had this idea for ages. Just a short little story though, but then this is a collection of ficlets!

As probationary officers, they used to trade tips on how to tell if a ‘perp’ (or whatever the phrase of the day was) would turn violent on you – lash out, pull a weapon, that sort of thing. “It’s in the _eyes_ ,” Lisa, a pretty and petite officer who seemed to be able to take down men four times her size with ease, would say insistently. “Some people just have crazy eyes.”

Others would look for nervous ticks, hands repeatedly straying to touch pockets and bags for reassurance. One bloke was certain you could tell from just how they placed their feet. “People with weapons will always plant their feet firmly, anyone else is on their toes ready to run,” he declared with confidence over drinks at the pub.

Richard had always thought the best way to tell if somebody had a weapon on them was the search them before they pulled the bloody weapon on you, but understandably that was not always possible. In fact in some cases it would be a gross abuse of police powers, even though he still harboured suspicions that his elderly neighbour in Croydon, Dora, had a flick knife secreted in her support stockings.

The night before a girl had been assaulted on the street, punched in the stomach and her bag stolen. In it had been £300 of her holiday spending money. There were no weapons involved, and Dwayne had pulled in a young man called Carson Grey for them who was usually short of cash, but the night before had apparently been flashing quite a lot around in one of the smaller bars in town. This attracted the attention of one of the many, many informants that Dwayne seemed to have. When Carson was offered the seat opposite him after he was cautioned (but not arrested, they didn’t have enough evidence for that) Richard hadn’t thought he had crazy eyes. Camille had dragged a chair over, positioning herself next to the suspect, and he acknowledged her with a nod of his head. Carson looked nervous, perhaps, but no more than to be expected. His hands were folded neatly in his lap and given that he was seated his feet certainly weren’t planted on the ground, as if he intended to make a stand.

But, despite fitting none of his colleagues so called warning signs, Carson currently had Camille in a very firm grip with a rather sharp looking knife pressed into her neck. He hadn’t even seen where the boy had retrieved the weapon from, everything had happened so quickly. One minute Richard was asking him about his apparent windfall of money, and the next they were in this mess. After decided it had likely been tucked into his jeans, Richard realised he was probably supposed to be showing concern for his captive Detective Sergeant.

“What do you think about that, hey?” Carson said at the end of what was largely an incomprehensible rant. Richard made a mental note that it might be an idea to get the psychiatrist around after this. This delay rather aggravated Carson, who tugged Camille a bit tighter causing her to give a squeak of protest.

“I think….” He began, considering his answer carefully. “Well I think it _really_ should have been me you grabbed.” This response threw Carson somewhat, and he ended up just staring at Richard, who proceeded to explain, “Well you see, quite frankly, middle age is setting in now and I was never really a big fan of the hand to hand stuff during training. And, taking into account the likelihood of me panicking, I’d probably be pretty much at your mercy. Yup, all in all, it would have been a much better idea to hold me at knife point. Because Camille…” Here he paused, whilst an entirely unprepared Carson was disarmed in a move so swift by Camille Richard was not entirely sure what she had done. Two seconds later Carson found his arms behind his back and head being pushed down on to Richard’s desk. “Camille is _very_ good at the hand to hand.”

Dwayne and Fidel, who Richard assumed had been poised the entire time waiting for their queue to intervene, now came over and relieved Camille of responsibility of the prisoner. She watched him walk away, a slightly disgusted look on her face. “Do you know what is weird?” He said to her.

She turned to face him, “No, what?”

“I wasn’t worried. Not at any point was I worried about you.”

Camille gave him a grin, “Well, it’s not the usual sort of compliment, but I’ll take it as one.”

“Well you should,” Richard told her. “I had absolute confidence you’d be fine.”

For the first time ever, Camille actually looked… _bashful_ , she seemed genuinely pleased by his statement, giving a small shrug I response and staring at the floor. It was actually rather cute…a thought he quickly pushed aside because he feared Camille could read his thoughts and would kill him for having this particular one. “Just so you know, I wouldn’t _actually_ have panicked if he had grabbed me.”

“Oh of course not,” Camille agreed instantly. “I realise that was entirely a distraction to allow me to disarm the subject.” Richard thought she could have made a little more effort to sound like she believed that.

“You _are_ alright, right?” He asked suddenly, realising that he wouldn’t be a very good manager if he didn’t formally ask. Richard was also pretty certain it would be one of the boxes on one of the many forms he would need to fill out in response to this incident.

“Yes, don’t worry, I’m not planning on suffering from some sort of delayed shock,” she assured him.

He frowned, “I don’t think _anyone_ plans to suffer from delayed shock, Camille…”

“Richard!” She cried, cutting him off. “Don’t get pedantic on me now, you were doing so well.”

Richard didn’t think taking the dangers of post-traumatic stress disorder seriously was being ‘pedantic’, but he also didn’t want to annoy her when she was apparently pleased with him. Instead, with a small smile, he said, “Well, that is a shame, I thought perhaps as your superior officer I should let you go home early due to the trauma you have suffered, and offer to buy you a drink just to give you the chance to discuss any concerns you might have…”

Camille, clever woman that she was, caught on immediately. “Well now you mention it, I do feel a little shaky,” she held a hand against her forehead, a flare of drama Richard didn’t think was necessary but amused him anyway. “Perhaps I _do_ need that drink.”

“We should go immediately,” he said and he grabbed his jacket.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwayne and Fidel watched from the entrance of the cells as their bosses upped and left for the day without a backwards glance. Richard said something they didn’t quite catch as he exited, but it caused Camille to laugh. “Man, do you think they even remembered we were here?” Dwayne moaned.

“No, I don’t,” Fidel said, but he didn’t sound annoyed, in fact he was smiling like _he_ was the one who just got to knock off early.

“You know _we_ had to witness the event. Maybe that traumatised us! Maybe we are the ones that need a drink, eh?”

“Dwayne you need a drink _every day of the week_ ,” Fidel told him, rolling his eyes. “You don’t need this as an excuse. Besides do you really want to sit and watch them flirt awkwardly all evening?”

Dwayne thought about this. “Maybe not at the table _with_ them, but you know from a distance, it’s rather a good spectator sport…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the second half of this with a bad cold and I hope it makes sense and isn't some insane ramblings brought on by the virus...


	18. The Whole Hugging Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard is English, the kind of white, middle class English male who doesn’t really get hugging.

There are things Richard didn’t like a fuss being made about. His birthday for starters, he had no desire to mark it in anyway. He can put up with his parent’s sending presents and a card – telling himself it was more for their benefit then it was for his. Given the way his team had reacted to his first birthday on the island, Richard thought his time of passing them largely undisturbed was probably over.

Richard had also never been comfortable with overly grateful victims of crime – something he didn’t have to deal with so often anymore since most of the victims were dead these days. But when he was starting out, working robberies, muggings and frauds as a DC, on those times he succeeded in retrieving often (sentimentally as well as monetarily) valuable items, he could find himself enveloped in an unexpected hug. He usually cleared his throat and stepped away as quickly as possible.

Not the Richard entirely minded being told job well done. As long as it was pretty much just that – and perhaps a drink as well. People should become Police officers because they feel it is a rewarding career in itself, not because they expect to _be_ rewarded. But polite, limited acknowledgment was ok, especially if it was a particularly difficult case to crack. He also kind of missed the way his Mum would praise him for completely the cryptic crossword, nobody on Saint Marie seemed to understand the point of crosswords…

And of course, like everyone else, he also wasn’t a fan of negative attention. Some nights he lay awake and just ran through every stupid mistake he had ever made, ever reprimand he had ever been given and a couple of rather spectacular rebuffs he had received as well. Richard didn’t need to add any more fuel to that particular fire.

So all these things fed into the fact he didn’t immediately inform his team of a certain change in his circumstances. They found out about it instead via a more indirect manner.

Camille and he headed out late one afternoon to interview somebody who wasn’t expecting them, so when they opened the door he presented his badge, “I’m Detective Inspector Poole, Royal Saint Marie Police Force. This is Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey.” Camille had given him a quick, miffed glance at the time, but had chosen not to say anything further. Not until they had finished the interview and were headed back to the car that is.

“You might confuse people if you introduce yourself as Royal Saint Marie Police Force when your badge says you are from The Met,” she said idly.

“Does it?” Was his response, retrieving it from his jacket pocket and allowing her to look at it for a moment. He went to put it back, but she physically grabbed his wrist and removed the badge and associated warrant card from his grasp.

“This is a Saint Marie warrant card!” She said, still scrutinising it as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Richard swallowed nervously. He hadn’t expected anybody to be _pleased_ , but he had hoped they wouldn’t be upset _._ Camille appeared genuinely shocked. “How come you’ve got one of these?” She asked, though Richard rather thought the reason was obvious.

“Because I’m a member of the Saint Marie Police Force…”

Realisation seemed to dawn slowly. “Your assignment here was made permanent.” She eventually concluded. It wasn’t a question, but Richard answered it anyway.

“Um, yes…” He was going to elaborate a little, but didn’t get the chance. For the first time in ages, he found himself quite inexplicably enveloped in a hug, arms pinned to his side by Camille’s embrace. The shock left him devoid of any idea of how to react – or more importantly extract himself. Richard was having to fight some other, more inappropriate, thoughts as well – like how nice it was to have her pressed up against him like this, and how thin the material of her shirt appeared to be…

“I can’t believe you’re staying! Forever” She said, her face still pressed somewhere around his neck.

“Why are you hugging me?” He eventually found the breath to ask.

Camille pulled back a little and gave him a disbelieving look, “Because I’m _happy_. Haven’t you ever hugged somebody because you’re happy before?”

Richard thought about this carefully, “Not since I was seven, and won the chess tournament at school.” For some reason, this caused Camille’s expression to turn to one of sympathy, and she pressed herself up against him again, squeezing even harder. He coughed, “You know I am starting to think you’re actually very angry that I’m staying and this whole hugging thing is just a ploy to asphyxiate me!”

Camille began to giggle, but did take the hint, stepping back from him but keeping a hand on each of his arms, so his discomfort was not alleviated entirely. “I am not trying to asphyxiate you, Richard, and I really am pleased you are staying.” He resisted the urge to jump backwards, fearing she could pull him back into an embrace at any moment, but Camille seemed to read his mind.

“Honestly, what is with the aversion to a hug, you are so English!” Camille scolded him. “If you are going to stay here you’ll have to get used to the odd hug.” Richard frowned, that hadn’t been part of the deal he had made with the Commissioner. Not that it really was a deal. He’d just asked if it would be ok if his transfer per made permeant. The Commissioner had shook his hand with a little too much glee and assured him that it would be seen to.

Camille took his silence for unhappiness, and jumped to the wrong conclusion, “You did _want_ to stay, didn’t you?” She asked, concerned. “You weren’t tricked into doing so or anything?”

“I…no…um…yes, it was my choice,” he got out eventually. He was a little worried Camille was going to ask him to elaborate on exactly why, so he added. “Seemed easier, you know, now I’m, sort of, entrenched. Settled in, if you will. Bit awkward to pick it all up and start again somewhere else.”

“I’m sure,” said Camille, who didn’t look overly impressed with him at that moment. She finally released his arms though, and Richard found he kind of missed the contact, and wanted her pleased again.

“Plus if I’d left I would have, you know, missed…” He tried, he honestly did, but his courage deserted him at the last moment. “Harry,” he finished, stupidly.

Camille gave him a small smile, but one that was filled with kindness and meaning. “I’m sure _Harry_ would have missed you too. I know I would have.”

She then took half a step towards him, arms open, as if seeking permission this time to hug him. Richard gave a tight note, hoping that by being prepared for it he might be a little more receptive the second time around. She closed the space between them, and did not hug him with nearly as much force this time. He managed to pat her a few times on the back before clearing his throat and saying. “I think that is enough hugging.” She stepped back obediently. “I guess I’m not a hugging person,” he offered apologetically. Though in reality his body was telling him he wasn’t a just stop at the hugging kind of person, at least when it came to Camille.

She just shrugged, “Now, let’s go get the boys and head out for drinks to celebrate!” Richard groaned at her declaration. “Hey, it’s not just for you, it’s nice for _us_ to have you staying! And don’t be surprised if Dwayne and Fidel hug you. In fact I think my mother might even be pleased enough to try to give you one…”

It was going to be a long evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended to do a lot more writing this weekend, but work kind of got in my way.


	19. The Gallery Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille starts to wonder if she is sophisticated enough, so decides to learn about art.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my current creative writing course, I had to write a 500 word story about the first thing that came on when I turned on the radio. I got a gallery opening, and bashed out a little story. Then Willowsticks told me I should use the same method to write DiP fics, so for her here is “The Gallery Opening” DiP style and longer than 500 words to boot!

“I should know more about art,” Camille declares one afternoon as she leans back in her chair, feet up on the table. It is a slow day, a slow week and Richard fears may prove to be a slow month. Nearly every conversation they have had for the past few days have ended in arguments.

“You after a transfer to Art and Antiques?” He asks without looking away from his computer screen. If he does, he knows he won’t be able to keep the annoyance off his face at her lounging. Even though she had completed every task he has set for her and both of them are now at a loss as to what she should do. “We could always do some spot checks on the origin of the material in the island’s antiques stores!” He suggests brightly, pleased by the prospect of something to occupy their time.

“You mean Maurice? Come on Richard that man is so timid the implication he might be a criminal could kill him.” Camille is right of course, Saint Marie only had the one dealer, a tiny and intensely shy elderly gentleman who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Richard often wonders how the man even managed to make a bid at an auction. “Besides,” she continued. “That isn’t what I meant. I was just thinking at 33 I should know more about art. Isn’t that what you are supposed to do in your thirties, go to dinner parties and talk about art and music and other sophisticated things?”

“Well if there is an unwritten rule saying you need to know about art by the time you are in your thirties, I know quite a lot of people who are behind on that,” he says flatly. She ignores his mild jibe, but he thinks he detects a little amusement anyway. He pushes onwards, “Anything in particularly I should be becoming an expert in at my age?”

“And what age would that be?” Camille tries gamely.

It is his turn to ignore her, Richard does not enjoy thinking about the ten year difference between the two of them. Instead he says, “You are _French_ and you lived in Paris, home of the Louvre, surely you know about art?”

“Actually. I never went to the Louvre.”

He can’t hide his shock. “You’ve _never_ been to the Louvre? Even I’ve been to the Louvre!”

Camille gets defensive then. “Hey, I was busy getting trained by the French police and coming top of my class,” she reminds him, as if he could forget how bright she is. She pauses, and adds, “Plus doing all the other things you do in your twenties.” Richard doesn’t enquire as to what exactly these are, but he can imagine.

“Well I can teach you about Turner and Constable and Gainsborough, but we didn’t do much on French artists at school so apart from a cursory knowledge of Monet you are on your own there.” It takes Richard a moment to understand the look of mild surprise on Camille’s face, then he reviews what he said and realises exactly what he has offered without a second thought.

“So,” she says, gracefully standing up and meandering over to his desk. “Shall we have the first lesson now?”

“It is working hours!” He protests.

“And we have just identified the fact that I wouldn’t recognise a stolen Glainsborough…”

“Gainsborough,” he corrects instantly.

“Gainsborough,” she repeats back with a surprisingly good English accent. “If I ever saw one, so think of it as a training exercise.”

He supposes they have nothing better to do.

 

* * *

 

 

The lesson only lasts an hour. Camille is constantly leaning in very close to scrutinise his screen – far closely than necessary for a woman with perfectly good eyesight, and it also proves very…distracting. Then she declares that nearly all of Turner’s work to be “a bit gloomy”.

“They are not _gloomy_ Camille, the man was a genius at painting seascapes!” He cries, exasperated.

“I suppose he could only paint what he had to work with,” she says. “It wasn’t his fault the weather was always miserable. And I suppose the sea is _always_ that grey colour as well?”

“Sometimes it is blue,” he says lamely. He wants to come to the defence of the Great British coastline but the memories of many freezing cold childhood holidays flood back and he isn’t able to lie.

“Know anything cheerier?” She asks.

“I think that is enough for today,” he replies firmly. It has nothing to do with the fact that actually, he can’t think of anything cheerier.

 

* * *

 

 

She appears on his porch and says, “Look what I got us!” She is flapping an A4 print out that he takes from her, excitedly thinking it might finally be a case. He frowns in confusion, it is no such thing, it appears to be tickets…to a gallery opening, on Guadeloupe. He gives her an unimpressed look.  “I thought it could be lesson number two,” she says, unperturbed by his attempts to convey his complete lack of enthusiasm.

“Camille, I know I absent mildly offered to teach you about a few British artists but this isn’t…”

 “She is a British Artist!” She says this in a manner that implies he should suddenly be filled with enthusiasm for the prospect of being dragged to Guadeloupe to see an exhibition by somebody he has never heard of. She persists in trying to gain his interest, “Look, her work is described as ‘Nordic Noir meets Ottoman Grandeur.’ That sounds interesting!” To Richard, it sounded a little bit impossible, but rather than say anything he continues to just stare at her in mild disbelief. She crosses her arms and huffs, “Look, I’ve bought the tickets now and you can’t get a refund! You aren’t going to make me go on my own, are you?”

Richard is about to tell her he is sure she can find volunteer to accompany her, and he _is_ sure. She is a beautiful woman and there are probably many single men on the island, her age, willing to put up with an evening of ridiculous sounding artworks if it meant spending it with her. “Fine I’ll go,” he says, surprising her as much as he surprises himself. His mouth had uttered the words without consulting his brain, but it is too late now. She gives him a bright smile and he scolds whatever part of his subconscious declares the whole thing to be worth it for that one smile.

 

* * *

 

 

“You look nice,” he tells her, whilst thinking she had never looked so beautiful in her entire life. In fact he is amazed he was able to get _any_ words out. Mouth acting on autopilot again.

“Thank you, research indicated people usually dress up for these things.”

“Yes,” he replies, unable to think of anything else.

He is grateful the price of the tickets includes wine, until he tastes it. Considering this is a French island, they seemed to have picked something equivalent to vinegar. He squints at a card on the drinks table that informs him the artist has personally chosen the wine to compliment her work, and its acerbic quality is designed to highlight the sharp knife that is life on this planet. Richard knows that if he did have a sharp knife right now he may do something drastic with it. Camille, equally unimpressed with the wine, appears from somewhere with two glasses of orange juice and he accepts one gratefully.

They approach a canvass, but stand well back to examine it. They have to stand well back, because it is at least 7 feet in length. “Do you think the sheer size of it is the Ottomon grandeur part?” Camille asks him.

“Perhaps. The excessive use of black would thus follow as the Nordic Noir bit.” They stare at it in silence for a few moments. He cannot figure out what it is a picture of. Then he spots what looks distinctly like a dismembered foot in one corner of the canvass. “Well, you certainly found a, um, cheerier artist.” Camille shoots his a sideways glance, and realises she is being teased. “I feel positively uplifted,” he continues flatly. She tries to hide a smile by drinking more juice. “Do you actually like it?” he eventually asks her directly.

She clears her throat and announces, “Well, Richard, I think she is a truly brave artist, tackling the brutality of existence with a skill rarely displayed by somebody of her age and experience. I feel like this painting is teaching me a real lesson.”

“You do?” he asks, a little disappointed. He hates it intensely, and doesn’t need another reminder of how different they are.

“Yes,” she confirms, glancing behind her to see if anyone is in ear shot. “Always google an artist before you buy tickets to their gallery opening. I hate it.”

“Thank God,” he says, with a sigh of relief. “Shall we get out of here and get some wine that is actually drinkable?”

“Wine!” She cries out in reply, as if hit by a sudden revelation. Richard is about to question her surprise, when she continues, “People also learn about wine in their thirties, don’t they? Perhaps I should try that instead.” He manages not to stiffen in shock when she takes his elbow and starts to lead him out of the room. “What do you think?”

“I like it much better than your art plan,” he says honestly. Especially if it means he doesn’t have to go to another gallery opening. “You know the English produce some of the finest sparkling wines in the world,” he is unable to resist telling her. “Some say they are better than anything from the Champagne region.”

“I doubt they are better than Champagne!” She disagrees almost automatically. “However, in the spirit of learning, I’m willing to let you try to convince me otherwise. You know quite a bit about wine don’t you?”

“A bit,” he admits, practising modesty.

“Excellent, wine lessons can replace my art lessons.”

Richard doubts she will give him the chance to object to this plan of hers, especially as she has already spied a wine bar down the road and is leading him resolutely towards it. He predicts trouble, but not necessarily the bad kind of trouble. Perhaps he’ll start by explaining the advantages of a mature Rioja.

 


	20. The Small Human Being

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A young man tries to steal Camille’s affections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a fic I am wrote in an attempt to get back into writing!

It all started when, in exasperation at listening to one of the market traders talking loudly about the fact he could sell these blue crab at bargain prices thanks to their not-entirely-legal source, Richard snapped, “You _do_ realise I’m a police office, right?” It was a rhetorical question, every person on this island knew he was a police officer.

The cheeky grin he got from the store holder in return was just further confirmation that this knowledge was widespread, “And for the brave police officers of the Saint Marie Police Force I can offer an additional 15% discount!” Richard just shook his head, they both knew he wasn’t going to do anything. He’d been here too long – and had recently overheard Dwayne and Fidel talking about how he was ‘softening up’. Though Richard Poole would deny that vehemently if ever asked directly - he preferred to think of it as focusing the islands limited resources on more serious crimes.

As he turned away from the stall, planning to stalk off in a disapproving manner, he found his passage blocked by a young boy staring up at him. “Hello,” the boy said. “I’m a small human being.”

An unusual introduction to say the least. He was tempted to ignore the boy and just step around him, but a quick glance around showed him to be apparently unattended. _That_ was something he couldn’t ignore, since the small human being was 6 at most. The accent was Birmingham as well, so he was not a local. “Hello small human, I’m Det…” he stopped himself, brain dredging up some memories from Hendon about how to deal with children. First names usually. “I’m Richard.”

“My name isn’t small human being, silly.” The child had the audacity to roll his eyes.

“Well that is how you introduced yourself,” he shot back, unable to keep a note of defensiveness out of his tone.

“Because you shouldn’t tell strangers your name.” Again, that voice implied _he_ was the irrational one. There was a pause, Richard didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to that. Then the small human being asked, “Are you really a police officer?”

That was a question he could answer. “Yes,” he said, retrieving his warrant card and passing it to the boy, who examined it closely. Richard was also aware that their slightly odd exchange was being watched by most of the market. He suddenly felt the need to get this little exchange exactly right. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Yes,” small human being said once he had reassured himself the warrant card was real. “I’m lost.”

Richard resisted the urge to ask where he last remembered having them. “Well, the police station is just over there,” he pointed up the steps, grateful the sign was visible from where they were standing. “Your parents or guardians are likely to go there when they realise you are missing, and it is the best place we can figure out how to get you back to them.”

The small human held out his hand to Richard, who just looked at it. “Mummy says I should hold hands because you can’t judge traffic properly until you are seven.”

“We don’t have to cross any roads,” Richard pointed out. He wasn’t too keen to hold the small human’s hand, it looked a little sticky. The child seemed rather disappointed by his response, hesitantly lowering his hand, and Richard suddenly felt himself being watched. Several older women were glaring at him and he got the distinct feeling he had missed something. Suddenly it occurred to him perhaps the small human wanted to hold his hand because he was scared – and didn’t want to get lost again. Suppressing a sigh he said with false joviality, “But better safe than sorry, eh?” and grabbed the hand.

It _was_ sticky.

Richard thought he heard several redundant shutter noises issuing from people’s camera phones. He wasn’t sure what was so notable that it should be recorded for posterity, but he supposed they did make an odd pair with him in a woollen suit and the small human in a pair of slightly too large Bermuda style shorts and one of those baseball hats with a flap covering the neck.

Richard walked briskly across the market, a years’ worth of experience allowing him to more easily navigate the crowds than when he had first arrived. Small human sort of half skipped along beside him – at first Richard thought this was just how six year olds walked, but then realised it might be due to a desperate attempt to keep up with Richard’s long strides. He slowed down and felt a little guilty when small human then reverted to walking.

“Don’t you want to know my actual name?” Small human asked as they reached the steps. Another spike of guilt – he really should have asked that once the child had explained he was lost.

“Of course I do.” He said. There was then a pause where he expected it to be supplied, but wasn’t. “Um, what is your name?”

“Montgomery Robert Offer, Junior,” the small human being stated. Personally Richard felt ‘small human’ was less of a mouthful than Montgomery. “You can call me Monty if you like. How many steps are there?”

Richard looked up at them and answered truthfully, “I’ve actually never counted.”

“We can count them together!” Small hu- _Monty_ said enthusiastically. Richard didn’t exactly feel the same way, but he supposed it was harmless enough. Of course, it did mean the climb too twice as long as it should (even with a child in tow). Fifty six steps later Richard looked up to find his colleagues all waiting on the balcony for him, completely bemused. Monty came to a halt when he realised he was being watched, suddenly shy.

“Who is this?” Camille asked, smiling kindly and instantly disarming the boy.

“I’m a small human being!” He declared, letting going of Richard’s hand and stepping forward to take Camille’s. “And my name is Montgomery Robert Offer Junior!” Apparently, Camille did not warrant the warrant card inspection before introductions could be made. However, since she had emerged from a police station and was standing next to two uniformed officers, Richard supposed it was a logical conclusion for a child she was also a police officer. Mind, she might have been a criminal being released. Richard had spent a good week entertaining the idea of arresting her for nicking his last two jaffa cakes.

“I’m Camille, it is nice to meet you.”

“Monty has lost his parents,” Richard explained.

Dwayne smiled broadly, “Well, young man, I think we can be of assistance there. Because Fidel and I were just off to see a couple of worried parents missing a child that matches your description!” Richard was relieved a long spell of babysitting was not ahead of him. Though he probably could have convinced Camille to take on the task. Dwayne turned to him, “Fidel and I will head over to the hotel and pick the parents up, and we will call them on the way and let them know we have something that belongs to them.”

Monty took a break from staring at Camille with a besotted look to ask, “What do you have that belongs to them?”

“Why you of course little man,” Dwayne explained, ruffling the boy’s hair.

“I’m not property,” Monty said, with a fierceness that surprised everyone present.

“No, that is correct, you are not property,” Richard said sensibly. “However your parents are responsible for you, and this is what Officer Myers was alluding too.” Monty seemed satisfied with that explanation, though he still didn’t return Dwayne’s cheery wave as they left.

“You want to come wait inside?” Camille asked. “Have a glass of squash?” Monty looked a little anxious which Camille quickly picked up on, “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve never been inside a police station before,” he said in a small voice. “Are there any criminals in there?”

“Not at the moment,” Camille said, and Monty instantly relaxed. He skipped over to Camille and took her hand, which she accepted without any of the hesitancy that Richard had shown earlier. He supposed he was being officially relieved – which suited him perfectly. He made his way to his desk, dumping the brief case, turning on the fan and stripping off the jacket. Monty was talking at such a pace that Richard couldn’t follow what was being said. A quick glance at Camille showed she was struggling as well.

To his surprise, when Monty came back carefully shuffling along with a rather full glass of something probably sugary, it was to Richard’s desk he headed. The small human placed his glass far too close to some important paperwork for comfort before proceeding to climb up onto the desk (using the bin as a stepping stone) and perch on it. Camille shot him a dark look, and as much as Richard wanted to explode, or at least stand up and physically remove the child, he knew the mood it would induce in Camille would not be worth it. So instead he moved the paperwork, and slid the keyboard further away for good measure.

Richard soon realised Monty had not chosen his spot because he was coming to see him, since the small human kept his eyes firmly fixed on Camille whilst he swung his little legs. He slurped some squash and then declared, “Camille, did you know you are very pretty?”

Camille looked up from the computer screen and smiled, “Well I do now, thank you.”

For some reason, this response caused the small human to shuffle round and look at Richard sharply, “Don’t you tell her that she is pretty?” It was not a question Richard was expecting, a snort of shocked laughter told him Camille was also surprised, though clearly amused. Richard was completely stumped on how to answer, luckily his need to was delayed by Monty continuing, “Or do you not think she is pretty? Mummy told me beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And that sometimes men love other men. Are you a man who loves other men?”

Even though Richard knew all he had to do was open his mouth and reply no, he was still in such a state of shock by the conversation he found himself unable to. It didn’t help his mind was replaying ever incident when he had thought Camille to be very pretty indeed, some memories so vivid he began to panic thinking Camille would be able to read the truth on his face. Camille, who was laughing silently but so hard her shoulders were shaking, managed to recover enough to answer for him, “Richard likes women, Monty.” Yes, he supposed the number of times he had been caught staring made that rather obvious…

“So it is that you don’t think she is pretty?” Monty asked, impetuous.

“I never said that!” Richard finally found his voice – with a statement that caused Camille to sit up straight and look more closely at him than he was comfortable with.

“You didn’t say _anything_ ,” the small human pointed out, quite rightly.

“No, you didn’t,” Camille said, as if it needed confirmation.

Richard knew he was going to have to tread carefully – unfortunately that wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. “You know, Monty, sometimes there are situations where it wouldn’t be appropriate for a man to tell a women he thinks she is pretty.”

 “Like when?”

“Like, um, if you are somebodies boss – the meaning could be misconstrued.”

“What is misconstrued?”

“Well, that is where somebody thinks you mean something bad, but you didn’t mean that at all, and then everyone is sad.”

“Why is it bad to call somebody pretty?” Oh yes, that was right, children _always_ ask questions – they don’t just accept things. In fact they’d probably make rather good investigators if it wasn’t for the fact it was generally considered bad form to expose small children to murder and the like. And speaking of things you shouldn’t expose children to – or at least, not without parental permission – explanations of what sexual harassment is was probably one of them.

He was forced to look to Camille in appeal. She rolled her eyes, disappointed, but replied, “Well Monty, it might make other police officers upset if Richard tells one person they are pretty but not all of them…” Richard though Dwayne and Fidel wouldn’t exactly be devastated, but on this occasion lying to a child didn’t bother him – as long as that lie worked.

“Oh,” Monty said, looking thoughtful. “I suppose I can see that.” Thank God for that. “Though if you _did_ find her pretty, you could always tell her in private so nobody else hears!” He suggested brightly.

Richard closed his eyes and willed himself elsewhere – or Monty’s parents here to collect him. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “Actually I did tell her once,” he said smugly.

“You did?” They both asked at the same time. Richard was a little hurt that Camille didn’t remember – but he supposed a compliment from a man like him probably meant very little to her.

“Yes,” he said, trying to hide the aforementioned hurt. “When you were going on that blind date?” He reminded her.

“I think you’ll find then you said I looked stunning, not pretty,” Camille said this without any hesitation – so clearly she _had_ remembered it and was just being pedantic. Which just wasn’t cricket– being pedantic was _his_ thing.

“I think _you’ll_ find stunning is better than pretty!” He said, sitting back and crossing his arms.

“I agree, stunning _is_ better than pretty,” Monty said, surprising Richard by coming to his defence. He was delighted though, uncrossing an arm to point at Monty whilst giving Camille a look that clearly said _see_! “I think you are stunning as well,” Monty continued, as if he now judged Richard to be a threat for Camille’s affections and was trying to compete.

“I told her first,” Richard said, temporarily forgetting that it wasn’t, actually, a competition.

“Yeah but _I_ can tell her all the time and you can’t!” The small human was apparently willing to fight.

“Not once you’re off this island, mate!”

The small human turned to Camille and declared dramatically, “I’ll think you are pretty even when I can’t see you! I’ll never forget you!”

This declaration was met by chuckling – not from Camille, but from a pair of adults who had just walked in the door. “You’ve collected quite the list of women you are never going to forget on this holiday, young man,” the person Richard took to be Monty’s Dad said. Monty squealed with delight, leapt of the desk and ran over to his parents. “In fact I bet you lost us following some pretty girl!”

“No,” the small human protested. “I was following a map to find buried treasure.”

“Monty, are you saying I’m not the _only_ girl you think is pretty?” Camille asked, she wasn’t hurt in the slightest – she said it with a smile.

“You are definitely the prettiest!” He cried, throwing his arms wide and sounding truly sincere.

“Yeah,” his Mum said, rolling her eyes. “That is what you told the receptionist, and the waitress yesterday, and the lifeguard and the woman in the market!” Everyone laughed this time, but the small human didn’t seem the slightest bit embarrassed – in fact he revelled in the attention.

“If you come with me, Mr and Mrs Offer, we can get the paperwork done and you can all get on with your holiday,” Fidel said, leading the family away.

Monty paused to wave at Camille and tell them both, “Thank you for your help!”

“You’re welcome,” said Richard, willing to put aside the past few minutes. He really shouldn’t have felt the need to compete with a six year old boy – especially for the affections of a woman whose affections would never be his. And yet, he still felt the need to say once everybody else was out of ear shot, “You know I don’t just tell _any_ old women I think she looks stunning.”

It wasn’t even jealousy that caused him to say it – well, not entirely. It was a hope she would understand that some things, things other men did naturally, did not come easily to him.

Camille gave him another one of those looks he found impossible to interpret. He imagined she was thinking of teasing him – it seemed to be her default position. So it surprised him and pleased him immensely when she said gently, “I know, which is why it means more when you do.”

 

 


	21. Night time attire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deciding turnabout is fair play, Richard decides to try to catch Camille in her pyjamas. Having forgotten one essential thing…

In a change from the usual routine, Richard was to pick up Camille this morning. He’d had to work late, but there had been no reason for her to stay, so he had sent her home. And in return Camille had left him the car so he could drive back, rather than take one of the hated island taxis. Despite the lateness of the hour he ended up retiring the day before, he still woke up early. It was a habit. Camille seemed to enjoy turning up and trying to catch him in his pyjamas – so he countered by getting up earlier and quickly showering and dressing. Though she _always_ seemed to know the days he fell asleep in his chair without setting the alarm, or overslept for other reasons…It was almost enough to make him believe in that female intuition she kept going on about.

Well, since he was awake, he might as well get going. He could turn up early at _her_ house for once. Richard hoped he might get a cup of tea out of her if she wasn’t ready when he arrived – Camille turned out to be able to make it as well as her mother. As he pulled up outside her small place it seemed like there wasn’t any activity, glancing at the time Richard realised there was a good chance she wasn’t even _awake_ yet.

He thought about delaying going in, maybe driving around for a little while. Camille often complained he ‘abused’ the car whilst changing gears (he thought it was nothing compared to some of the noises it made in protest when she was driving) so perhaps he could use a little practise. But no, she had turned up earlier than this to his.

So he climbed out of the Defender, slamming the door loudly to try to give her some sort of warning, and then wincing when he realised it was a bit rude to wake her neighbours as well. He took a more gentle approach with knocking on the door…at least at first. When his attempts when unanswered he rapped more aggressively, but to no avail. Knowing it was pointless he tried the door handle anyway, but to his surprise he found it was unlocked. Yes, he slept with his doors open on occasion, but he was in the middle of nowhere. Camille lived in Saint Marie’s version of Suburbia, leaving the front door open was a much riskier move – especially since she could apparently sleep through all the noise he had been making. She was lucky it was him at the door and not some criminal out for revenge. Richard marched into the house intending to give her a stern lecture about home security when he came to an abrupt stop – after all, she wasn’t awake yet. He had been here a few times, but he wasn’t overly familiar with the place and certainly had never been to her bedroom.

However, Camille lived in a one story building. The door opened straight on to the living area, and he could see the kitchen from here, so logic dictated the bedroom was one of the two doors he had never been through before, the other was likely to be the bathroom. Richard didn’t particularly want to spend a long time knocking quietly on the door to the bathroom thinking it was Camille’s room. He took a step back and assessed the dimensions of the two rooms, call on his skills of dedication in a situation he hadn’t imagined he’d need them, and it seemed from here the door on the left was leading to a larger room. He decided he better get on with it, because he wasn’t sure how he would explain himself if Camille were to emerge right now and find him standing stock still in the middle of her living room trying to pick between two doors.

And so he approached, though still somewhat cautiously. Knocking on the door he cleared his throat and said, “Um, Camille, it’s Richard…” They used first names quite often, bit for some reason now it felt a lot more intimate - but to use ranks would have been the exact opposite and far too formal for the situation. He thought he detected a slight snuffling noise, but it might have been his imagination. Certainly there was no answering voice. He tried again, knocking a little more firmly and calling out, “Camille?”

This time he heard a bit of movement, and possibly a response…though he may need his ears testing. He thought he heard Camille say, “The kittens will wake me.”

At least he knew she was in there. Richard considered his options, but then a thought occurred to him. What would Camille do? Well, she probably would have just marched straight into his little shack, perhaps not even with the courtesy of a knock. The last time she had woken him by hitting on the head with a pillow. Well, Richard thought that turnabout was fair play. So he pushed open her door with more confidence than he felt and stepped inside.

He was surprised to find she slept with the shutters open – and more surprised that she could still be asleep with the shutters open and all the light streaming in. Richard had been fully intending to just march in, clapping his hands and announcing himself loudly, similar to the way he woke Dwayne when he was snoozing at his desk. But instead he paused, took a moment to take the scene in properly. Camille was on her side with the sheet very nearly covering her head, perhaps trying to block out the light, all her could see was very wild curls. He noted she slept on the left side of the bed, which was the opposite from his choice of the right. Unbidden, a smile appeared on his face, and he felt…feelings. Feelings he knew he shouldn’t really have, so he pushed them away, cleared his throat again and clapped his hands.

“Wake up Detective Seargent!” Now he felt ok moving to ranks. “No time to be napping!”

Richard wouldn’t call the response he got exactly enthusiastic. “You are _kidding me_ ,” Camille groaned from under the covers. She didn’t pull the sheet down. “I thought I heard your voice but I assumed it was a dream…”

She paused, and Richard thought she might have muttered ‘or nightmare’ but he wasn’t 100% sure so he didn’t pull her up for it. Instead he joked, “Dream about me a lot do you?” Richard really hoped she didn’t respond by asking if _he_ dreamed about _her_ , because he would surely become flustered and give the game away. In fact he was beginning to blush a little just thinking about.

The sheet was pulled down just enough to reveal her eyes, which were glaring at him.

 “How did you even get in her?” She asked. “Did you break in?”

“No, of course I didn’t, I’m not you,” he said, referring to her less than legal methods at gaining entry when investigating cases. He supposed undercover officers always needed to be a little rogue. But still, he was indignant at the suggestion, “You left your front door unlocked! Which is rather irresponsible for a single woman living alone, and as a police officer you should know better.”

Camille pulled the sheet down a little lower and propped herself up a little on one elbow, “Firstly, I obviously usually lock my door, it must not have caught properly last night. Secondly, I may be a single female, but I am hardly helpless. I could take any man who walked in here. You are lucky I did hear your voice and think I was dreaming! Otherwise you would be incapacitated right now, I keep my CS spray next to my bed.”

He didn’t doubt it. Richard considered explaining that it wasn’t strictly legal for her to have a police issued weapon at home, but then he thought she might use it. To cover the slight fear he now felt for his life, he said moodily, “Anyway, as agreed, I am here to pick you up for work.”

“Early!” She said.

“Oh you’ve turned up at mine ridiculously early on a number of occasions,” he said, dismissing her complaint.

“When there has been a murder,” she pointed out, quite correctly. “Has something happened?”

“Um…” She didn’t need Richard to say no. Instead she huffed and pulled the sheet back over her head.

Richard thought back carefully and then, with an almost gleeful air declared, “What about those times you turned up early on a weekend insisting I go see more of the island?” She just muttered something unintelligible in return. “Oh come on I am here now, you might as well get up,” he tried to cajole her.

“You just want a cup of bloody tea,” she spat from beneath the cupboard, it was like she could read his mind. He’d never heard her say ‘bloody’ before, and couldn’t help but think she might have picked it up from him.

“I mean if one is going…” For the second time that month, Richard was hit in the head by a pillow. “Oi!” She didn’t respond to his protest. “Are you going to get up or not?”

“Not whilst you are in the room!”

“Oh please it isn’t like you haven’t seen me in my pyjamas before!”

The sheet was pulled down again and Camille gave him a wicked grin, “Well then, Inspector, you have forgotten something I told you over a year ago now. I don’t wear pyjamas, I sleep naked.”

Richard froze. “Oh forget that, did you?” She continued, as colour rose in his cheeks. Richard would have expected a woman to be outraged at a man barging into her bedroom when she was in a state of undress. But Camille, she just found his embarrassment amusing.

“Right,” he said, beginning to back away. He felt like running, but it seemed like it would be rude. “Yes, of course, slipped my mind?” How could it, now he thought about it? Richard felt that little fact she had shared had been responsible for several… _interesting_ …dreams he had had in the past. Camille sat up, holding the sheet in place to retain her modesty. Richard wondered if she realised that the way her mirror was placed in the corner of the room now afforded him a view of her long, bare back in its reflection. It was really a very lovely back, his brain thought rebelliously. Fearful Camille would hear his thoughts, he fumbled for the door, and ended up falling backwards through it, landing on his bum.

“Umph!” He cried, temporarily shocked into inaction, he just stared at the floor for a moment. A snort of laughter brought him back to reality.

When he looked up, she was leaning forward a bit more, ostensively to check he was ok. From the corner of his eye, he could see she was accidentally revealing more of herself in the reflection, so he resolutely decided not to look. The fact he still hadn’t made to stand up or said anything was clearing concerning Camille. “Richard, are you ok?” To Richard’s alarm (not delight, definitely not delight) one long leg slipped out from beneath the sheets, the perfect foot coming to rest on the floor.

“I’m fine!” He said in a strangled voice. “Don’t get up!” He shuffled back on his bum, before hauling himself to his feet and firmly shutting Camille’s bedroom door for her.

“Feel free to make yourself a cup of tea,” she called through the door.

Richard thought that he would. With plenty of sugar, for the shock.


	22. Viral Videos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille decides to educate Richard further on the world of viral videos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well since Willowsticks and I wrote about Richard having a YouTube account in chapter 1 of The Boat Race, set up for him by Camille, I thought I would write a story about how that might have come about. You don’t need to have read The Boat Race, mind. But you should :p This will be set somewhere between 2.7 and 2.8.

“But you studied history!” Camille protested.

“I fail to see how that is a salient point.” Camille had become fixated with the idea that he needed to watch more ‘viral videos’ and generally become more in touch with ‘internet culture’. And apparently now, whilst they were sitting around waiting for Fidel and Dwayne to return from patrol for the Friday night drinks he had for once agreed to, was the perfect time. Personally Richard felt internet was probably responsible for the degradation of human culture, but he refrained from saying so in case Camille pointed out he couldn’t make that judgement without experiencing more of it. She was extremely sharp, and knew all of his weaknesses, and though he tried to stay one step ahead she nearly always caught him.

“Well you analyse sources, in history, don’t you? Like manuscripts or diaries or paintings? To learn about the times people were living in?”

“Yes,” he said slowly, wary of where this is going.

“Well these viral videos are the sources that future historians will study learn about what life was like in the 21st Century,” she announced triumphantly.

“God help them,” he shot back. Camille rolled her eyes. Richard thought she made some interesting arguments, but he still didn’t understand _why_ she wanted him to watch them.

She began a fresh argument, “Did you know there is increasing use of social media, including videos, by the police in order to help prevent and solve crimes?”

“It sounds about right.” If people insisted on twittering their every waking moment, it made tracing their movements a hell of a lot easier.

“Don’t you think it is your duty, as a police officer, to thus keep abreast of the current trends in social media?”

Richard consulted the list of videos Camille had placed before him, intending he watch. Waving the paper a little for effect, and clearing his throat, he said, “Let me get this straight. You think that watching a video entitled _‘Charlie bit my finger_ ’ may one day help me solve a murder?”

She paused for a beat before admitting, “Well, maybe not that particular video…”

“But skateboarding dog? That will presumably? And Gangnam style is presumably about gang culture, and thus relevant to police work?”

“Well no,” she said, looking peeved. “It is a Korean song, but the most watched video ever on YouTube at over 2.2 billion views.”

Richard leaned back in surprise. That did sound like rather a lot, it must be a very good song. He wasn’t overly familiar with world music, though he had developed a certain fondness Jiangnan sizhu during one of his modules at Cambridge. Camille sensed his curiosity and pounced, “You want to see the video that got 2.2 billion views?”

Richard considered resisting a little longer, if only for the purposes of winding her up. It was nice to have a bit of control for once. But then his curiosity got the better of him and he said, “Well, if it gets you to stop nagging me, I could watch this one video…”

“Excellent!”

She pushed herself off his desk, having been perched on it like a schoolgirl for the last 15 minutes of cajoling, and dragged a chair around to sit next to him. “Shall we set you up an account at the same time? It will enable you to save your favourite videos, and subscribe to channels you like.”

“I don’t think I’m going to need an account,” he said firmly. He doubted there was much on there that would interest him.

“We’ll see,” Camille said airily as she opened YouTube on his browser and typed in “Gangnam Style” in.

Twelve seconds was all he needed to realise this was _not_ what he had been expected. He reached for the mouse to close the damn window before it assaulted his senses any further, but Camille snatched it away from him, “Oh no, you agreed to watch it and you are going to watch it all!”

Richard, who did know _some_ things about computers, simply hit the space bar to pause the video.

“Camille, this is not…”

“How did you do that?” She cried, staring at the screen in surprise. And to think, she was supposed to be the IT expert in the team. “Oh never mind. Just watch it!” She said pointing at the screen and clicking play again.

So he did. It was certainly…educational. He felt the need to hit pause again when the horses came on. Richard liked horses and hoped they hadn’t actually been playing the music when filming. “I think that might be animal cruelty if they were,” he told Camille, who rolled her eyes and hit play again.

“Is there any reason this video can’t just stay in one place? Or even just a couple of places…?”

“That is the best thing about it!” Camille protested. “The complete randomness.”

The pause button was hit again, “That explosion was completely gratuitous and I think having sat through a full minute of this is punishment enough.”

“If you have managed one minute I am sure you can manage 3 more,” she told him. Richard really didn’t understand what had gotten into her. “Besides, there are some very attractive women coming up for you to ogle.”

“I do not ogle!” He snapped as the video began to play again. “Why do they randomly switch to English?” He asked a few moments later, hoping to stimulate enough conversation to drown the rest of the video out.

“I don’t know, it seems to be quite common though in Asian pop music.” He found himself intensely hoping Camille did not listen to this sort of music regularly. He wasn’t overly fond of what she would play in the car in the mornings, her excuse was that she had been listening to it at home and didn’t want to miss the end of the show. Sometimes he imagined her bopping about in the mornings, wondered if he could put up with it and quickly realised he could. Especially if she was maybe wearing just his shirt…Richard shifted uncomfortably, aware his thoughts had taken a very inappropriate turn. His thoughts were a fantasy, something that would never happen in real life.

A bit like what was on the music video at the moment.

“You know I’ve seen women dance like that on the London underground before, but they were very drunk and not quite as…co-ordinated.” He said as he hit pause again and prayed that Camille assumed his blushes were from the provocative dancing on screen rather than that from his imaginings. “And that really is enough Camille. It has been…an experience,” he said diplomatically. “One that is now over. I don’t think I’ll be requiring YouTube’s services in the future though, so…”

“Oh come on…” She began

“No!” He said much more firmly. “I mean it.”

“Come on Richard, there are millions of videos on there and I am certain there are actually things you’d enjoy…”

“If what you just showed me was the most popular video I really doubt that.”

“But you still haven’t seen skateboarding dog!” She protested.

He levelled her with a look, “Is it a dog who can skateboard?”

“Yes,” she nodded enthusiastically. “It’s really cool! Shall we watch it?”

Richard knew she would nag him until he agreed. She was still keeping the mouse firmly out of his reach. He found himself in a foul mood suddenly. “You know I don’t have to put up with this, I can just leave!” He stood up to make this point. All he wanted was to go home and be on his own.

“Oh really, you want to leave me alone with your computer logged on?” She had turned teasing again, and though recently this had tended to calm him this evening it was not the case – it only aggravated him further. So he reached forward and pressed down on the power button – essentially doing a hard reset. Camille looked at him in horror, “Richard, you shouldn’t do that!” It was fine – he knew he had saved all his work, though Camille didn’t. He grabbed his bag and made his way to the door, “Where you are going?” She cried.

“Home,” he grunted.

“What about drinks?” She called after him, but he ignored her.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard sat at home and tried to read _The Moonstone_. His laptop laid on the table, off and closed, but his eyes still kept being drawn to it. He couldn’t concentrate on the book, and the main reason wasn’t a sudden desire to watch every viral video to ever come into existence. It was guilt. He had let his emotions get the better of him – embarrassed that he had momentarily drifted off into a very inappropriate fantasy about Camille not only when at work, but when she was so close to him as well. He knew logically she couldn’t read his mind, but still…she did show remarkable intuition on occasion. He had become overwhelmed by the need to get away and quickly, but it meant backing out of the drinks he had already agreed to that evening. No doubt the team were drinking together right now, whilst Camille complained about how rude he was…and on this occasion would be justified. And there was also no doubt she would be cool with him for tomorrow at least. Richard had never been good at apologising. Or expressing gratitude appropriately. Or expressing any emotion, as she had pointed out before.

Sighing heavily, he dropped the book on to the table next to him startling Harry, stood and fired up his laptop. Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened YouTube and typed in “skateboarding dog.” Wow…that dog could really skateboard. In fact it showed more co-ordination that Richard was capable of on a good day. Perhaps if he told Camille that he had enjoyed…no, then she would just be annoyed he hadn’t done it when she suggested.

Stuck, Richard then remembered how she had said something about their being all sorts of videos on YouTube. He wondered…Typing in “how to apologise…” the service immediately offered “to your girlfriend” and then just “to a girl”. A small smile graced his face – clearly he was not the only clueless one. In fact he was willing to bet it wasn’t just teenage boys having to look these things up either.

A woman who called herself a life coach (a phrase that made him scoff and wonder who would pay somebody to teach them how to live, until he remembered he was the one having to watch the video) advised him he should both _want_ to apologise, and be clear that he knew _why_ he was apologising. Well, he could tick both those boxes. Apparently he shouldn’t ‘generalise’ and be careful about using the word ‘but’ – as that negated the apology. Huh, he had always wondered where he had gone wrong on past occasions, the offering an excuse thing may well have been the reason. Richard actually reached for a notebook at this point, thinking he might not remember if he didn’t write everything down.

 

* * *

 

 

She came by to pick him up as usual, and Richard was ready for her. “Are you coming?” She said shortly from the door. He winced, there was the predicted coolness.

“Uh, yes, in just a moment,” he replied, sure she would hear the nerves in his voice. “Um, first though, I just wanted to apologise, you know, um, say I’m sorry for the way I acted last night.”

That startled her, though she quickly hid it. Instead she raised one eyebrow and repeated back to him, “The way you acted?”

“Yes,” he said, hiding his own disappointment that she hadn’t just accepted his initially apology. Clearly a little grovelling was required. “It was very rude of me, after I agreed to go for drinks. And I’m sorry.”

“Well…” she began, looking a little lost for words. “Ok then.” It was then that Camille noticed that his laptop was open on the table, and he had left it on a particular website for her to see.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t require YouTube’s services anymore?” She questioned, as she wondered over to peer at the screen.

“Well, I was thinking about what you said after…”

“Your tantrum?” She interjected, but there was a smile on her face.

“After I got back,” he suggested instead. “I remembered what you said about there being all sorts of videos on there, and how there was bound to be something I would like…” He was not about to tell her the one he had found most useful, but a little more browsing had revealed some “channels” as they were called of interest.

“Oh?” She prompted him.

“For example, there are quite a few channels about books and such. They are very interesting.”

Camille looked quite smug about being right. He considered mentioned how much rubbish he had to trawl through before he found some real gems, but decided not to ruin her good mood. “So did you get your own account?”

“Actually, I couldn’t figure out how. It didn’t seem to accept my email address.” He’d thought about seeing if there was a video called ‘how to sign up to YouTube’ but decided Camille would probably enjoy showing him. And he’d probably enjoy her showing him.

“You have to have a Google account – a Gmail address.”

“But I don’t want a Google account.”

She sighed aggressively, “You don’t _have_ to use the email address. But if you want to save those videos this is the only way. Now do you want me to show you or not?”

He nodded acquiescing easily, and she beckoned him closer. As he moved in Richard noticed on the floor the notebook he had been writing in last night. As subtly as he could, he kicked it out of view further under the table. The last thing he wanted was Camille to see he’d also taken notes on some other instructional videos as well…not that he would probably use the “how to have the perfect dinner date” advice anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am off on my holidays for a week now. Then I will try to update one of those many stories I have ongoing…


	23. An Unprofessional Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An alternative ending to a scene in 2.02 (the one with the nuns). Richard tries to convince Camille that is how he knows that woman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teeny, tiny ficlet! I hope more people than just Willowsticks and I are familiar enough with the scene this starts with to know what I am talking about! It goes from where they have just finished questioning the PR guy and Richard sees him with his fiancée.

Richard watched the pair out of the car window, “I saw a photo of that woman on his desk.” He paused, considering her further. “I think I know her from somewhere.”

“You know her like _that_?” Camille asked cheekily, referencing the passionate embrace the couple were engaged in.

His first instinct was to just tell her to drive and ignore her attempt to get a rise out of him. She’d had enough fun at his expense today, what with his embarrassing performance a little earlier when surrounded by the women in bikinis. How was a man expected to be professional when wearing a suit in this heat and surrounded by women who generate…more heat…

Sometimes he wondered why he should be so professional all the time, and perhaps it was that thought which sparked the words that came out of his mouth next. “ _That’s it!_ ” He snapped his fingers, putting on a tone that implied he had had a major revelation. “ _The Mitre_ pub in Camden town, Christmas 1994. Christmas party, back when I was in uniform. Turned out she really liked a man in uniform. Dragged me into the women’s toilets I seem to remember.”

His response was met by silence. Richard watched the couple head inside before turning to see the look on Camille’s face – which was one of complete shock. So deep a shock that he wondered if he should be offended. She eventually just raised a single eyebrow prompting him to ask, “What?”

“She’s one of your…” Camille considered her word choice. “Conquests?”

Rather than answer the question directly, Richard decided to question her phrasing, “Conquest? Do you really think I am the sort of man who would use the term ‘conquest’?”

“Oh you know what I mean! I was trying to be delicate, we both know how flustered you get,” she pointed out. “I can’t believe you didn’t recognise her straight away, or were you rather drunk?” She asked the last bit in a very offhand manner. But Richard was a trained detective, he could tell she was trying to figure out how an awkwardly social person like him could have picked up an attractive woman. Not in a cruel way, though, he also knew that – Camille wasn’t capable of being cruel. She might be the one who played bad cop usually, but he could tell she was one of those who joined the police force because they wanted to help people. Unlike him, who liked puzzles and had to do something that made his father happy. No, Camille’s disposition was such that she genuinely wished everyone a happy ending. She was probably trying to think of how she could use whatever information she gleaned to set him up on a date.

“Drunk?” He said. “Oh no, senior detectives were there, I was far too nervous to drink much in case I said something stupid. Like I said, it was the uniform, so many women were throwing themselves at me back then I can’t be expected to recognise _all_ of them immediately now, can I?”

“How many?” She asked instantly.

He shrugged, “I wasn’t keeping count Camille.”

“Oh please you are far too anal not to have kept count!” Before Richard could protest at her description of what he preferred to refer to as his meticulous nature, she continued, “You are having me on, aren’t you?”

“Of course I’m having you on,” he told her with an aggressive sigh. “And I thought you were supposed to be good at telling when people were lying.”

“I _am_ ,” she said, sounding a little hurt. “But you are the last person I expect to lie to me!” Only Camille could turn it around and make him sound like the bad guy. It was a natural talent she had. Richard felt admonished even though he knew it wasn’t justified, but then he noticed Camille was smiling. Clearly she had been a little amused by his joke.

Camille started the car, “So young PC Poole was not trailed about the streets of London by a gaggle of enamoured women?”

“No,” he replied shortly. “Obviously not.”

“And you weren’t dragged into the toilet of a pub by an attractive woman during the Christmas party?”

“Oh no that story is true,” he said, surprising Camille enough that she failed to steer around a rut in the road causing them both to nearly hit the ceiling. She muttered an apology and he continued. “Obviously it wasn’t her. I would remember that. No, it was a red head.”

Camille had no response to that. He did so enjoy it when he left her speechless.


	24. Accidentally Creepy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille discovers that Richard is really quite cute when he is sleeping.

There was a hen party in one corner, squealing more often than speaking and singing the odd drinking song. Technically, games that encouraged alcohol consumption were against the rules of licenced premises on Saint Marie, but Camille wasn’t going to go over there and tell them to cut it out. Perhaps she was a bit biased because it was her mother’s bar, she knew if they started getting really out of control they would be cut off. Outside on the patio, her mother was allowing a young man with a guitar who was island hopping to perform for the evening and hopefully pick up a few tips. An attractive individual, he had found himself surrounded by young women who liked to show their appreciation loudly at the end of each song. Meanwhile, crowded around another table, Dwayne and some of his friends were arguing good-naturedly as they played some game. Fidel stood back and watched, seemingly amused, and Camille thought there might be a little bit of gambling involved hence why the young man was not actively participating. A cry of dismay rose from the table just then, accompanied by more of a cackle of joy from Dwayne himself, who had clearly just won.

And, despite being practically in the middle of all of this ruckus, Richard was asleep. Slumped against the wall at a corner table, an unfinished cup of tea in front of him. It was amazing he could sleep through all this and Camille might have been concerned he was actually unconscious or something, but for two things. Firstly, she knew he had been up all night. Rather than going home with the rest of him, he had stayed at the station studying the incomprehensible squiggles and numbers on a print out of the memos from a murder victims phone until he had figured out there meaning, allowing them to solve the murder and arrest the culprit. And secondly, every now and then he let out a little snort and shifted in his sleep.

It was really rather cute.

She’d chosen to stay sitting at the table, sipping on a cocktail, whilst the boys wondered off. Somebody had to protect him from the bar’s other inhabitants. Of course, this was not the first time she had seen him asleep. There was the time they had all turned up to celebrate his birthday, only to find him slumped in a very similar manner in that favourite chair of his. She’d noticed then, though only briefly, how much more relaxed, younger, he looked. And it was a good look. But this evening, for the last half hour, she had had the chance to observe him more closely.

If she ever needed evidence that Richard was tense all of the time, it was right here in front of her now. She could count on one hand the times she had seen him this relaxed whilst awake. When her mother made a roast dinner for him…that time her teasing finally got to him and he chased her along the beach…and occasionally when he got the answer to a case that had been bothering them for ages. It never seemed to last long though, eventually he’d retreat back into his usual uptight self, and Camille would return to her mission to try to get him to relax more permanently.

Her mother breezed past then, and Camille caught her arm and asked _sotto_ _voice_ , “Can I have another cocktail please _Maman_?”

“Come up to the bar and have it there!” She replied, raising her voice to be heard over the noise of the bar.

“Shh!” Camille said, flapping a hand to indicate her mother should lower her voice.

“Oh come on, if he can sleep through _that_ ,” her mother said, nodding through the women doing a rousing (and what they probably thought was sexy) performance of _I just want to make love to you,_ “He is hardly going to wake up because we are having a conversation.” Camille knew that logically, though she thought perhaps a more familiar voice might rouse him even if the background noise didn’t. “Why don’t you wake him up and drive the poor man home? He must be exhausted, been working too hard again.”

“But he looks so peaceful, it would be a shame to wake him. He would only be grumpy if we did,” she offered by way of explanation. Her mother gave her a significant look, causing Camille to frown. “What?”

Catherine gave a small shake of her head. “I think what you mean is ‘but he looks so peaceful, and I won’t be able to stare at him wistfully whilst he sleeps if I take him home’”

“ _Maman_!” Camille said sharply, standing and dragging her away from the table towards the bar. The last thing she wanted for Richard to wake up hearing her mother say that. Of course, they were speaking French, but she suspected he was starting to understand more of the language then he let on. “That is _not_ what I am doing!”

“Yes, it is,” Catherine told her firmly. “And you know, it could be construed as a little creepy.”

“I am not being creepy,” she continued to protest.

“Come on, Camille, how would you feel if you woke up and found him staring at you like you have been?” She thought about that for a moment. She supposed there could be some miscommunication that meant it came off as creepy. But in her head, she imagined waking to find him watching her with intensity, with the sort of feeling that let her know exactly what he was thinking, how he felt. A small smile appeared on her face, which only seemed to frustrate her mother. “ _Mon Dieu,_ you have it so bad, why couldn’t you fall for somebody more…” Catherine struggled to think of the word she wanted, eventually giving up with a shrug and finishing, “Oh never mind.”

Camille, meanwhile, was still shocked by her mother’s words, “What do you mean, I have it bad? I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“Oh like the fact you are crazy about him rather than he just makes you crazy is supposed to be some sort of big secret?”

Camille, ignoring the fact the bar was busy and could use her mother to help serve, dragged Catherine even further away from the rabble. She considered continued denial for a moment, before just biting her lip and saying, “Yes, it is! Does everyone know?”

A roll of the eyes followed that question, “Everyone but him.”

Camille was mortified. “Oh my God.” Had they been the source of gossip for what…weeks? Months even?

“Come on now, don’t worry yourself,” Catherine said now, spotting the distressed look on her daughter’s face. “You two need to take your time to get things right. God knows it will be complicated between you.” She paused before adding. “But not too long. I want grandchildren. Even if they are little English grandchildren who are too embarrassed to kiss their _Mémère_ in public.”

This was all getting a little overwhelming for Camille, who decided perhaps it was time to bring her evening of being accidentally creepy to an end. “Fine,” she said shortly. “I’ll wake him and drive him home.”

Catherine followed her daughter closely, in a teasing mood. “Perhaps he’ll invite you in when you get there?” She suggested with a smile.

“ _Maman_!” Camille said in a warning tone.

“I mean he has just had a nice nap, he might have energy for other activities this evening now.” She gave a little gasp. “Perhaps I’ll get my grandchild earlier than expected!”

“ _Maman_ now you are the one being creepy!” She said sharply as they got to the table.

“What’s creepy?” Said Richard, sitting forward in that confused manner that only a person who has just woken up unexpectedly can manage. He picked up his cup, taking a sip and grimacing. It appeared he didn’t realise just how long he had been asleep. “My tea is cold,” he said, truly mystified by this fact.

“You’ve been asleep,” Camille told him, leaning forward and placing a hand on his shoulder. She swore she could feel her mother’s eyes on her. “Do you want a fresh cup, or for me to drive us…” she paused, realising what she had said quickly correctly, “ _you_ home.”

Richard still seemed a bit confused. He was staring at the hen doo that was now attempting to pole dance, without a pole, “I slept through that?”

“You work too hard,” Catherine suggested. “Let Camille drive you home.” Camille resolved not to look at her mother, she was sure it would only cause Catherine to burst into laughter thus confusing poor Richard further. He stood, trying to stretch subtly, and Camille took that as a sign he did want to go back and hunted through her purse for the Defender keys.

“You know Richard,” Catherine was saying in an almost motherly way as she escorted the two of them out of the bar. “Camille could give you lessons on how to relax. I think she’d be very successful.”

Camille was going to kill her mother.


	25. New Habits Die Hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People who spend a lot of time in each other’s company will pick up their habits. No matter how much they deny it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a friend who when I asked her if she wanted a chocolate, tipped her head to the left, bit her lip and nodded. Something she had never done before – but her boyfriend did all the time!

His father had gotten a passport specially.

When Detective Chief Inspector Ian Poole (retired) had glanced at his passport five years ago, to find it had expired, Richard distinctly remembered him announcing he wouldn’t be getting another one. “I’m not paying £70 odd quid when there are plenty of places in the UK we haven’t seen,” he had said. Every holiday his parents had taken since had been within the UK (with a jaunt to Ireland, which you didn’t need a passport for if you were British).

So it came as a surprise when his parents had called him and informed him of their impending visit. They had already booked the tickets, so there was no talking them out of it. When he expressed his surprise to Camille that night at Catherine’s, the eponymous lady (who was pouring his tea) had said simply, “Well of course they want to visit, Richard, you are their son and they miss you.” Camille had nodded, giving him a significant look – a reminder of how he had had to buy her many drinks one afternoon after she had correctly guessed her father would have heard about the hurricane and be worried. Though Richard couldn’t actually say if he had been worried – just that he had asked quite quickly if everything was okay. Might have just been curiosity.

“They only say me a month ago!” Richard pointed out, referring to his brief foray back to London with a prisoner in tow.

“Not for very long,” Catherine argued back. “And they probably want to see the place that has whisked you away from them, your new home.”

Richard’s instinct was to open his mouth and immediately deny that Saint Marie was his home. And he did open his mouth, but he found the words wouldn’t come out. Eventually Camille leaned forward and placed a finger under his chin, shutting his mouth for him. She leaned back and smiled at him in a way that made him spill his tea when he tried to put the cup back down.

“Don’t worry,” Camille said.

“Don’t worry about what?” Richard asked.

“We won’t impose ourselves on your parent’s little visit.”

“Oh,” said Richard, surprised by Camille’s offer of restraint. He had rather expected their curiosity to get the better of them and pop up everywhere. Perhaps demanding embarrassing stories from Richard’s childhood. “Um, well, of course I will probably bring them to the station just to show them it and introduce you all. And we’ll probably be here for the odd cup of tea. Not sure how to fill the rest of our time yet.”

“Now _that_ ,” said Camille. “I can help you with.”

 

* * *

 

 

A few weeks later, Richard found himself sitting in Catherine’s bar opposite his parents. They were relieved to have been presented with drinkable tea, especially after a day of touring historic plantation houses whose cafes had all failed to supply a decent pot of tea. He was acutely aware of the island’s residents watching them curiously. Camille was at the bar, pouring over a printout he had given her the other day. Despite her promise, Richard hadn’t been entirely sure she would keep her word, so had devised a plan to distract her. He had bet Camille an evening of drinks that she couldn’t get more or as many correct answers than him at The Time’s cryptic crossword. She was frowning over it this very moment. He felt pretty smug about his plan. A moment of inspiration seemed to hit her, and she leaned forward to fill out an answer. The small of her back was revealed by the action. He didn’t know a back could be so lovely…

“Richard, did you listen to anything I just said?” His mother asked now. Richard dragged his eyes away from Camille and hoped nobody noticed what had been distracting him.

“Sorry, Mum, miles away.” His father gave a little huff of amusement. Richard strongly suspect he _did_ know what he had been looking at.

His mother just sighed, “I was asking if you knew a way to get to Marie-Galante easily. I read the houses there are beautiful as well.”

It took Richard a moment to remember what Marie-Galante was – one of the small islands that made up Guadeloupe. Having only ever been to Basse-Terre (and usually then under protest) he had no idea if there a direct connection to Marie-Galante or if the trip would involve first going to Basse-Terre. He wasn’t particularly keen to go either way, so in response to his mother’s question he just shrugged.

His parent’s stared at him. Then they looked at each other, and back at him. His father looked like he might have died a little inside, his mother just had her eyebrows knitted together. Shrugging was a bit rude, he thought to himself, but surely not _that_ rude.

“What was that?” His mother asked.

“I…er…shrugged. Sorry…I should have just said I don’t know how to get there. I can find out…”

“Never mind that,” his father cut him off. “Do that shrug again.” It came out as an order.

Richard, very confused, attempted to oblige them. His father shook his head and his mother tisked, “No,” she told him. “That isn’t how you shrugged just now.”

“It isn’t..?” Richard said, trying to recall what action he had made which his parents found so disturbing.

“No,” his father agreed. “You shrugged,” he paused, looking around him, and then leaning forward said in a loud whisper, “in a Gallic way!” Seeing that Richard didn’t understand, his father demonstrated. He bent his arms at the elbow, palms up, and shrugged. It was a gesture Richard recognised, he’d been on the receiving end of them from Camille many a time, and occasionally Catherine.

“I did not shrug like that!”

“You did,” his father told him firmly, settling back into his seat. “How much of the island did you said was French?”

“About a third,” said Richard.

“You do seem different here,” seeing Richard’s look she added, “Not in a bad way. I suppose some of their culture was bound to rub off on you,” his mother said, with a small sigh. She was acting like she was missing him growing up or something – Richard doubted very much he had changed that much.

Richard had found his eyes drawn to Camille again. Currently, she was talking to Catherine, who for reasons unknown was remonstrating with her daughter about something whilst pointing between her eyes.

“Yes,” he father said loudly, dragging Richard’s attention back to him. If Richard didn’t know better, he would think there was a little smile at the corners of his father’s mouth. “Especially if you spend a lot of time with a particular French person.” His mother did smile at that.

Richard swallowed hard, reached for his tea, had a sip, and then asked benignly, “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” his father said slowly. “Wasn’t that Detective Seargent we met this morning French?” His father nodded at the bar where Camille was sat. They had been introduced this morning.

“Yes,” His mother agreed. “I’m sure you’ve mentioned Camille to us before now, as well. Don’t you too…what do young people say, ‘hang around’ together outside of work a bit?”

“With the rest of the team,” Richard said quickly. Deliberately ignoring all the evenings she had spent on his porch. And the odd weekend she dragged him out sightseeing.

“What was that coffee you ordered for breakfast again this morning, Richard darling?” His mother asked.

“A cappuccino,” he said simply, wondering why his mother was asking now. Perhaps she wanted one instead of tea. He would have thought his mother knew what one was, even if she only drank instant coffee with 5 sugars.

“You only ever used to drink filter coffee, another habit you picked up here I imagine,” she said. “What kind of coffees do your team drink then – I assume that is something you do occasionally?”

This was a very odd line of questioning, but if it got them off the subject of Camille he was willing to talk about it, “Er, well Dwayne and Fidel have theirs black…Camille prefers, um…”

“A cappuccino?” His mother supplied. His father coughed. It sounded like he was trying to cover up a laugh. “She perhaps the one who introduced you to them?” His mother was right, of course. He hadn’t dared try the tea at some café they were at, and the filter had broken on their machine, so Camille had told him to just try the cappuccinos. Which were, in her opinion, divine. She also went on and on about how he needed to try new things so much he gave in, ordered one, and despite thinking it had about 4 inches too much foam on it rather liked it. Camille had taught him to order wet cappuccinos, which he always felt ridiculous doing, but he did prefer them now to normal coffee.

In response to his mother’s question, he shrugged. And made a concerted effort to do it in the ‘English’ way. “Sometimes. And sometimes she drinks iced coffee.” That was a drink he didn’t have a taste for.

“You know, I thought maybe you two were close,” His father said innocently. Richard realised he was being teased. He was being teased by his father. _His father_. Had old age mellowed him? Where was the giant of a man who had terrified him as a child? Who’d seemed disappointed that every achievement he had ever gotten wasn’t somehow…better? He looked at his Dad with wide eyes and wondered if he could cope with this man. The last time he remembered being teased by his Dad was on a beach holiday…when he was six. “After all,” his father continued. “She does keep glancing over here.”

“No she doesn’t!” Richard denied. Then, after a quick sidelong glance towards Camille, asked less confidently, “Does she?”

“Richard, I was a police officer for 40 years, I know when I am being watched,” his father said confidently. “Or, in this case, when somebody I am with is being watched. And I know when somebodies attention is elsewhere.” Richard got the feeling this last bit was referring to him, and not to Camille.

“She’s probably just curious,” Richard said, offering an alternative explanation. “She helped me plan today, you know, maybe she is just wondering how it went.”

“Oh did she?” His mother asked, eyebrows raised. “Well we must thank her. Perhaps by buying her a drink?”

His father had leaned back to get a better view of Camille at the bar. Catherine had gone off to serve some other customers now, and she was quite alone. “What is it she is doing there?” His father asked, referring to Camille hunched stance. “Some paperwork?”

“Oh a crossword,” said Richard. He had a sudden bright idea of saying that Camille hated to be disturbed when doing the crossword, but before he could his father stood up.

“A crossword fan!” He said. “Well, she is alright by me then, she can definitely come have a drink with us.”

And he marched off across the bar without a backwards glance. His mother just sat across from him, smiling widely.

God help him. This was going to be interesting.

 

* * *

 

 

Camille knew Richard and his parent’s must have arrived when Catherine bustled past her with a heavily laden tea tray. She was only able to resist the urge to look around for about 30 seconds, she glanced behind her and watched them all settling down. She told herself she wanted to see if they looked happy, after all she had helped Richard planned this day. Though, part of her also just wanted to know how Richard was coping. She knew it must be stressful for him to have his parent’s here. They all looked fine at the moment, grateful for the tea in fact. The former DCI Poole looked up at that moment and Camille quickly looked away, turning her attention back to the printed off sheet Richard had given her yesterday. It was a copy of The Times cryptic crossword. She had been teasing him about his little habit, one that he paid for with a subscription to something called ‘the crossword club’. It had led to a challenge from him that was now keeping her occupied.

Staring at 4 down, she tapped the pen against the lips, and then the answer suddenly came to her. Pleased, she leaned forward and filled it out, before turning her attention to 6 across, which might help her with one of the clues she was horrendously stuck on.

“What’s this?” Her mother appeared, pulling the printout swiftly towards her.

“Oh, it is a cryptic crossword. Richard bet me I couldn’t do better than or as well as him. I think he just wanted to distract me from his parent’s visit, stop me interfering. He obviously thinks this is a bet he can win easily.”

“But you used to do all those cryptic crosswords when you had that wonderful boyfriend at college. What was his name?”

“Adam,” Camille supplied. For some reason she felt the need to look behind her, check Richard wasn’t suddenly in hearing distance. Adam probably wasn’t what Richard would imagine as her type. Not that Richard probably spent much time considering what her type was.  

“Yes, Adam! Shy, bookish sort. I remember how cute it was when you brought him home, you two curled up on the sofa doing crosswords. You were very good at them.”

“Yes,” said Camille, with a little wink. “But Richard doesn’t know that.” Her mother smiled, sliding the paper back towards her. Camille took another glance at Richard to check if he had noticed the exchange and then, assuming her mother would go back to her bar tending duties she went back to her contemplation of her crossword. Tapping the pen against her lips, she frowned, trying to think of alternative meanings of the word crater that might help her solve the clue. Cryptic crosswords had been a lot easier in French.

“Urgh!” Cried her mother, causing Camille to jump. “These bad habits you’ve picked up from that Englishman! I am telling you, you two spend too much time together. Work should be at work – and you do keep insisting you are just colleagues. Though the more you pick up from him, the harder I find that to believe.”

Camille sat back, and stared at her mother, going over in her mind what had just been said. Her eyes flicked back to the table that held Richard and his family, but they seemed to be in conversation. Besides, the bar was far too noisy for them to overhear. “Well, firstly,” she began. “I would say we are colleagues and friends. And secondly, what habits are you talking about? I haven’t picked up anything from Richard except certain…investigative skills. And that hasn’t been all take, he has picked up a few tricks from me as well,” she added with a hint of pride.

“Is that right? Well what about the tapping of the pen against your lips? Are you saying that isn’t something Richard does?” The problem was, Camille couldn’t really deny it. She had stolen a pen once at the station and imitated him in front of the whiteboard, tapping it against her mouth like he did. She had no clue it had become an actual habit. Not that she was going to tell her mother that.

“I’ve always done that!”

Catherine just breathed out sharply through her nose. “The pen thing I can live with, but you need to stop frowning when you are thinking like he does. You’ll end up with wrinkles here!” She pointed between her eyes. “And look old before your time, like Richard. A pretty pair you’ll make then.”

Camille had sometimes thought the worry lines between his eyes, and on his forehead, made him look older than he was. Sometimes she imagined smoothing them out with her fingertips…nope, she shouldn’t be going there. Camille turned slightly in her seat, and could see he was frowning now at something his parents were saying. She didn’t spend too much time with him, did she? So there were a few evenings on his porch a week…the odd weekend trip…

“Well,” her mother said. “I can see you’re a lost cause. I can only hope he’ll pick up more good habits from you then you do bad ones from him.” She didn’t give Camille a chance to respond, going off to serve some customers on the patio.

Camille went back to her crossword, not that she was able to read any of the clues on the paper in front of her. Did it really mean anything, her picking up a few quirks from him? Yes, it was something that happened to couples, but it must happen to colleagues…friends…as well. Had she picked up anything from Dwayne? Fidel? A voice jolted her from her thoughts.

“Good evening, Detective Seargent Bordey.” It was Richard’s father. He probably wanted a drink. She couldn’t hide her surprise when he asked, “Since you and my son usually spend so much time together, my wife and I wouldn’t want to deprive you of his company all evening. Please do come join us for a drink. Feel free to bring the crossword, I rather enjoy them myself.”

The pen slipped from Camille’s fingers. “Um,” she begun badly. “Richard told you we spend a lot of time together?”

“Not in so many words,” Mr Poole said with a small smile. He had Richard’s eyes, and Camille found it a bit disconcerting. “Now please, join us.” Somehow, it sounded like an order.

God help her. This was going to be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am deliberately leaving it unresolved…you can all guess what happened in that little gathering!


	26. Just in case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard wants to tell Camille something, but he doesn’t actually want her to hear it. Set during season 2 episode 7 (the hurricane episode!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on holiday for three weeks and then moved house, hopefully this teeny tiny ficlet will help get me back into the swing of writing

Camille knew she would never get any sleep with Richard sitting up, candles burning, flicking through that damn book. But she also instinctively knew he would never settle down to sleep whilst he thought her awake. So she lay down, fully clothed despite the brief temptation to pretend as if she was going to undress just to see what it would do to Richard, and closed her eyes. She suspected she would be pretending to sleep for some time. Camille swore she could feel his eyes stray to her form every now and then, checking for signs of consciousness.

Eventually, all that laying still and pretending to sleep started to have a sedative effect on her and Camille felt herself actually drifting off. She roused a little when she heard the book drop to the floor, a little smile touched her lips. Richard has probably nodded off whilst trying to read it and the book had slipped from his hands. Hopefully he would give in now and try to get some sleep. He shifted a little, and Camille was certain he was staring at her now, probably checking if she was asleep. She concentrated on making her breathes seem deep and even to try to fool him.

“Camille?” he whispered, leaning a little towards her. She didn’t respond. “Are you awake?” Still she didn’t move – knowing Richard he probably wanted to discuss some new idea about the case. They’d be arguing for another 2 or 3 hours and terribly sleep deprived in the morning. “Okay.” He said in a kind of final way, as if he had made a decision. “Okay,” he said more softly.

Camille felt sure he would try to sleep now. But then he continued in a whisper, “You’re very important to me.” A pause. “I wanted to tell you in case…In case I never tell you when you’re awake.” Camille was so shocked she almost stopped breathing. Quickly she forced herself to take the same deep and even breathes, ears straining for what Richard might say next.

But no more words came, instead he let out a sigh and finally lay down beside her. It sounded like he pulled his jacket over him as a blanket – typical Richard, God forbid he share her blanket. To him that would be the height of impropriety. What was she to do? It had thrilled her more than she ever would have thought to hear him say those words – but if Richard _knew_ she had heard he’d probably swim back to England in his desperation to escape his embarrassment. But she felt she had to acknowledge it.

As naturally as she could manage, Camille shifted on to her other side, carelessly throwing out an arm so that it came to rest over him. She felt him stiffen for a moment, but then relax. For a glorious moment, he let her arm rest on him. Then that sense of propriety must have kicked in again, and he wriggled away from her, gently laying her hand back on the blanket.

Camille didn’t feel too bereft though. She felt like they’d made a start.


End file.
